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Topics - Doktor Howl

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The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Dear LMNO & Nigel:
« on: October 28, 2014, 06:25:11 pm »

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Tucson cuddly wildlife.
« on: October 28, 2014, 02:32:53 am »
#1:  The Javalina.


But then



Suu pointed out that New Hampshire (!) had some riots, so I went looking.

VERY interesting article on the comparisons between Black and White rioters.  Don't stop when you get to various pics.  It keeps going.

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / How come...
« on: October 24, 2014, 05:53:02 pm »
...Guys who post shit like THIS:

Always look like THIS:

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / SOOOOO...
« on: October 17, 2014, 04:00:38 pm »
The unused room next to my office is being remodeled into an extra conference room.  Problem is, there's a short hallway leading from that room to the outside and to the bathroom the crew uses.  To make the room "even", the powers that be have decided to remove the hallway.  This means that my guys can't use the bathroom if there's a meeting going on.

I was told this was okay, because if the guys need to use the bathroom, they can just go to one of the other buildings.

My protests have been overruled.

SO:  We're going to jam k-wool into the sewer's breather pipe, and let the sewer gasses back up into the conference room when it is in use.  Then we'll remove the k-wool.  Each and every time there is a meeting.  Forever.

Shut up.

Seriously, shut the fuck up.  I know you enjoy what we do.  I enjoy what we do.  But you have to face facts...People who DON'T enjoy what we do don't want to hear about it.  Why?  Because when you talk to people about this "sport" (it's not a sport, it's exercise), one of two things are happening:

1.  You're bragging about how much you managed to get off the ground or off the rack or whatever, and boasting is BORING, or

2.  You're spewing incomprehensible jargon at them and making them hate you.

Jabbering about lifting to non-lifters is to them what listening to crossfit cultists is to us.  Or the 420/smoke every day crowd.  Or Doctor Who fans.  Or Star Wars cosplayers.  Or the guy who just HAS to tell you about his awesome D&D character.

No shit, that's really what it's like.  Hell, I got into this DESPITE hearing about it, not BECAUSE I heard about it.  In fact, I put it off for MONTHS because people I know do it and WON'T SHUT UP ABOUT IT.

Now, when we are talking to each other about what we do, that's different.  We are enthusiasts.  We enjoy it. 

But we have to remember that boring tons of people with the minutia of what we do isn't going to bring people it; it will actually drive them away.


Okay, so we have this poor deity, and according to many, the room for him in our universe shrinks every time somebody learns something about how said universe operates.  This is a possible error, as we are inferring an unknown quantity by its absence, without knowing for sure if there is any said absence.

A Deist would say that God set up the rules of the universe and then absented Himself from it (or, for that matter, He IS it, and cannot be detected because He is the system itself).  Therefore there are no "gaps" in the first place, just rules we haven't yet learned, none of which conceal God because he isn't there to conceal.  He's not real with respect to the universe, because if he was, he'd have to follow the universe's rules him/herself, which would imply that God isn't really a god at all, but rather just some very powerful natural critter.  This argument assumes that this hypothetical God is actually a deity and not a natural critter.

A Universalist would add to that; saying that not only did God set up the rules and then bugger off, but that His/Her intent seems to be that we learn the rules that God set up...In fact, that learning said rules (physics, chemistry, etc) are the highest form of worship and/or devotion.  The claim that "there are things man was not meant to know" is to them sacrilege.  Lastly and perhaps most importantly, it is blasphemy to claim that physical evidence should be disregarded in favor of scripture, because that's basically calling God a liar.  And to imply that said evidence are "lies of the devil" is Manicheaism, a heresy that no follower of ANY Abrahamic religion will tolerate (as it implies that "the devil" is at least as powerful as God).

(Universalists also don't believe that anyone goes to hell, because people were made the way they are by God for reasons that God hasn't chosen to communicate.  Needless to say, this pisses off every other religion, as they feel that they are God's chosen deputies at the very least, and can say who gets to go to hell.  A universalist would counter with "You don't get to tell God what to do".  I am rather fond of universalists.)

Bill had made an ass out of himself in less time than even we had expected.  Four drinks in, and he'd started hitting on the blonde.  She wasn't having it, of course, because her job is "waitress/conversational companion" and not "prostitute"...And she certainly wasn't going to lay him for free.

When it finally penetrated his whiskey-stunned mind that she wasn't interested, he began to "neg" her, clumsily.  For those of you who don't expose yourselves to sociopaths, "negging" is the art of giving backhanded, demeaning "compliments" in order to dent the self-esteem of a woman, in order to make you look "out of her league", which is supposed to make her chase you.  It doesn't work, but "Pick-Up Artist" gurus make $5000 a week, per head, showing chumps how it's done...With the women involved being just as hired as the women we spoke to in LA.

The blonde was a pro.  She smiled at his increasingly offensive "compliments".  With her mouth, anyway.  Her eyes said something very different.  Later, as he began to drunkenly whimper about "the friend zone", her smile got a little more razor-edged, and she began prompting him.  Within minutes, he was more or less bellowing out shit about how "bitches don't know a nice guy when they see one".  Blondie was trying very hard not to laugh out loud, and kept prodding him to expand on these ideas.

Tim was, of course, recording all over this into a flash drive, for possible later use.

Eventually, his behavior became so bad that the Brunette signaled me that he had to go.  Staggering outside, we got back in the car.  Tim was more or less sober, so he drove.  I was half-tanked, and sat in the passenger seat...Bill, on the other hand, was shit-faced and sort of took up the whole back seat. 

"I do not believe that we have enough," Tim said, "We will need more."

Misunderstanding (as intended), Bill hollered, "HELL NO.  WE NEED MORE."

Hours went by.  We stopped at a faux biker bar, where Bill managed to get fake bikers to take a swing at him.  Tim settled them down for a nap, but not before his suit jacket got ruined.  We hit a club, where Bill threw up on the dance floor.  Finally, we were back at the hotel.  We slung Bill's passed-out ass on the bed, and I jumped on my laptop and spoke to a friend for a while, while Tim went to get a new jacket.

While I was online, Bill rather noisily shat himself.  When Tim returned, we carried him Weekend At Bernie's-style, and left him on the street outside, with his shitty britches around his knees, and then we called the cops on him and went to our own rooms to get some sleep.

The next day, we bailed him out of jail.  He was hung over and miserable.

"What happened?" He asked.

"Well, you drank a little too much and ran off on us," I replied, "We spent all night looking for you."

"Uh, sorry guys.  This mean the job is off?"

"Not at all.  We expect a little eccentricity from our best minds.  In addition, it is obvious that you are not a hard-drinking man, like ourselves.  This is a good thing, and takes a load off of our minds.  You wouldn't believe how many chemists are habitual drunks."

"This is the weirdest Goddamn job interview I've ever heard of", Bill said, oblivious to the fact that Tim was sending Bill's current boss emailed pics of his shame (both on the sidewalk and coming out of the jail) with his smartphone.  Handy things, those.  I really should get around to obtaining one.

"We are not a normal company," I said, "We do not do things the way other companies do them.  That is why we are the future and they are the past.  But we'll talk about that later.  You need to get some real sleep, and so do we.  We can discuss things this evening over a nice quiet dinner."

"That sounds like a plan," Bill responded, looking relieved.

Obviously, we had no such intentions.  Once Bill was back in his room, Tim and I went to the Crabshack next door, and met Sharon for lunch.

"You are okay with going through with this?" I asked.

"Oh, sure," she replied, "He's a creep.  Seriously, I fucking hate him, just from the hour I spent with him yesterday.  So no problem.  Hell, I'm even getting paid for this."

"Yes," Tim said, "And a very good coin indeed.  With the promise of future acting engagements of a similar nature...Provided you can keep quiet about this one, at least until it's done.  Longer would be better."

"No problem, muscles."

Tim grunted, which is about as close as he comes to laughing. 

That evening, Sharon showed up at Bill's door.  Tim and I observed from the fire stairs, listening in on my tablet, receiving from a small wifi device in Sharon's purse.

"Hello," he said, with a look of mild distaste.

"Hello yourself," she chirped, "Hamish and Tim had to handle a few things, so they asked me to show you a good time."

"Asked you or paid you?"  Bill wasn't quite as dense as he looked. 

"Paid me, of course.  Are you complaining?"


"Well, then, let's not worry about it.  How about you and I loosen up with a drink?"  The two of them went into the room.  They chatted a bit, her leading him to believe he was about to get into the pants of what he thought was a high-end prostitute.  His voice became slurred by the second drink...Thank God for Roofies.  Then we heard Sharon say "Okay, he's out."

We walked into the room, and put him on his side on the floor near the bathroom.  Then the three of us scuffed the room up a bit, and went down to the car.  A 20 minute drive back to the makeover palace, and a makeup tech got busy on Sharon.  Within 30 minutes, she looked like she'd been curb-stomped by angry gorillas.  Then a quick drive over to a clinic that "stayed open" after hours for us...We had a little photo shoot with Sharon lying on a gurney looking brutalized.

We dropped Sharon off at the makeover palace.  I smiled while I handed her an envelope. 

"I already got paid," she said.

"This is a bonus.  You did a fantastic job.  You'll be hearing from us again."

She looked in the envelope, and her eyes lit up.  "Thanks, guys!"

"No, Sharon, thank you."

We went back to the hotel and took a nap.  When we woke up, we let ourselves into Bill's room, and shook him until he finally woke up.

"Uhhh, what's going on?"

Tim dropped the photos of Sharon on the floor beside Bill.  "What is going on, my friend, is that you are some kind of animal."

"Just look at what you did to that poor girl," I added, "You are in a lot of trouble, son.  That's going to be about 5 years in the state penitentiary.  What in God's name where you thinking?"

"I don't...I didn't..."

"She says you did."

"That lying bitch..."

"You have to get out of California," I said, "And you have to do it right now.  Today.  Within the hour would be best."

"Uhhh..."  Bill's head was still fogged.  So much the better.

"We have a car waiting downstairs.  A 22 hour drive to Louisiana - one would not wish to use an airport - and one would never be found by inquisitive Los Angeles police officers.  But one would have to be an employee of The Company."

"What?  But...Um...What's the pay?"

"A fairly generous wage...And your liberty.  Perhaps even a new name.  Certainly not quite as generous a sum as one with less legal difficulties, but generous nonetheless," I replied, "You have 5 minutes to decide."

Ten minutes later, Bill was off to his new life in Louisiana.  Tim and I relaxed in the restaurant, over some substandard and overpriced food. 

"Do you suppose he will ever realize that nobody is looking for him?" Tim asked.

"Doesn't matter.  Not really.  The pics you sent his boss, plus his absence, means he won't have a job to miss here.  But with any luck at all, he'll hunker down in Louisiana for 5 years or so before he realizes he isn't a wanted man."

"I almost feel bad about this," Tim said, "That was too easy.  There is no pride in outwitting a fool."

"But there is in a job well done.  Anyway, it's time to drive home.  You will of course be driving, for I am old, and easily fatigued."

"Okay.  Perhaps we can stop in Yuma for lunch.  They appreciate us in Yuma."

We got into the Charger, and drove East.

We met Bill in the hotel bar in Garden Grove.  He was a caricature of the bad side of nerd-dom...Greasy ponytail, a mangy neckbeard that accentuated the fat under his chin instead of hiding it, adult acne from poor hygiene, sloppy clothes, and a sloppy body.  He even had the trilby and the decades out-of-fashion frames on his glasses.

Consider:  Nobody, not even the most hardcore MRA, would consider this to be attractive, yet it is done deliberately.  It is done - and this is the hilarious part - to again acceptance among other losers who can't get a date.  It is the deliberate sabotage of one's own chances, for the purpose of impressing other males that also refuse whatever chance they might have.  Why?  Who knows?  Perhaps it is a means of rationalizing their fear of women.  Women are strange creatures, admittedly, and some people are intimidated by that.

We walked up to where he was sitting at the bar.  "Bill?" I asked.

"That's me."

"I am Hamish and this is Tim.  We have reviewed your professional achievements, and I believe that I can speak for The Company when I say that we're interested.  There are some minor details to go over, of course, but I feel we can do that in a more relaxed environment."

"Any place in mind?"

"We are strangers in your city, but I have indeed looked up a couple of places worth investigating.  It must be somewhere casual...If Tim can't get that tie off, I am unable to answer for the results."

Bill just looked at me.  His mouth was slightly open.  Something was stuck in his teeth.

"But," I continued, "not ENTIRELY casual.  We do have certain standards, Tim and I, standards I think you'll agree with.  But that will require a change of clothes for all 3 of us."

"All my clothes look like this.  What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing, Bill, nothing...When it comes to work.  When it comes to being out on the town, we'll have to do something.  More specifically, Sharon will have to do something."

"Who's Sharon?"  Bill looked suspicious.

"A consultant.  Sharon's job is to make sure that we present the best possible face to the public.  It's all paid for."

Bill muttered something about "bitches".  I sighed inwardly.  So far, the file on Bill was 100% accurate.  Unfortunately.  We chivvied him out to the Charger, and Tim blasted down Chapman Street, up to the highway.

An hour later, we pulled into the parking lot of what can best be described as a "makeover mall".  We tossed the keys to the valet - Only LA would have valet parking at what is best described as a combination beauty parlor/clothing store - and were immediately greeted by Sharon.  Sharon is a twenty-something woman of dubious acting talent, but possessing a true eye for fashion.  She's also smoking hot.  If she was to give up on her dreams of being an actress and concentrate on her strengths, she'd go very far in this town.

"Hi, guys," she said with a smile, then gave us an appraising look.  "Gonna take some work, all 3 of you."

We followed her in.  Bill seemed a little awed by her, but I could already see that turning into resentment.  Perfect.

An hour later, we were done.  Sharon not only had an eye for what was in fashion, but what worked for a given individual.  Tim was dressed in a perfectly-fitted pair of slacks and jacket, minus tie.  It made him look like the CEO of Muscles, Inc.  Bill was shaved and dressed in slacks and a loose shirt.  You can't hide the fat on a guy like Bill, but you can distract people from it.  Me, I looked like a bald James Hetfield from the Whiskey in a Jar video.  They had even groomed my fu manchu straight and to the correct length, and razor-cut my scalp.

Looking good.

As the three of us piled back into the Charger, Bill asked "Isn't this a little excessive for a job interview?"

"Yes," I said, "But that is just one more reason to consider working for The Company.  We do things right.  And we don't quibble over a few thousand dollars when stacked up against the profits we'd see with you on board."

"I am a little unclear on what exactly is is that your company does."

"We build the future, Bill, one new material at a time.  As far as you're concerned, it's pure research.  You don't worry about time to market or even marketability itself.  But we'll discuss this all a bit later.  Tim and I are worn out from the drive across the desert, and we need to kick back."

"And drink whiskey," Tim added, speaking for the first time since we entered the hotel.

"Whiskey replenishes tired brains," I added, "Don't question it."

We pulled up at the sidewalk in front of the 'restaurant', and tossed the keys to the valet.  It was actually more of an exclusive club...On our own, neither Tim nor I had the cred to even be a bouncer there.  Inside, we were greeted by 3 insanely beautiful women, who escorted us to our table.  They sat down with us, and told us which outrageously expensive whiskeys were available.

Bill looked a little lost.  "I'm more of a PBR man," he said, "I don't know from whiskey."

"Then I'd say," replied the blond girl next to him, "That it's time you learned."

The brunette across from me winked at me, and gave a grin that would have looked more appropriate in an aquarium. 

The whiskey flowed, and for a time, things actually went well.

For a time.

To be continued.

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