Author Topic: Letters to James  (Read 2023 times)

Doktor Howl

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Letters to James
« on: June 21, 2021, 10:16:07 pm »
A friend of mine is on a 30 day FB ban, so I have started writing him letters.

Dear James,

Remember when we all used to worry about Large Hardon Collider thingie being turned on and fucking up the timeline?  Well, if you look at the date they turned it on, it explains everything.  It ran from 2010 to 2013 before being shut down for “upgrades”.  Then it ran from 2015 to 2018, and then stopped for MORE upgrades.

And we all know what happened from 2015 until now, right?  Leaving the Bloated One aside, 2015 killed all of our heroes and 2016 showed us that the ones that didn’t die were all perverts & abusers.  Murder hornets.  Plague.  An insurrection AND the boat got stuck, and believe you me, the current economic disruption from that has just started.  And the entire time all of this has been going on, Trump has been weaponizing stupidity and using it against the American people.

Do your part, James:  Whup on a Swiss physicist today.

I mean, it’s not like you Ohioans are any strangers to violence, after all.  There’s footage James, of you at the Godless Mingle meet up, yanking the colostomy right bag off of that dude who wouldn’t shut up about his “Blasphemous Bible” and wearing it like a party hat.  Not to mention Shauna <last name redacted for PD> explaining contemporary feminism to po’buckers with a meat hammer.

It is just this sort of nonstop violence that is driving us all to cheap drugs.  Do better.

Speaking of which, I am now down a tech because one of my guys did the road rage thing the other day and shot a couple of people.  But nobody involved was from Ohio, which strikes me as odd, in that only one person died.  Mindless murder & mayhem here are generally taken far more seriously.

This is all very inconvenient, of course, because we still have DEFF ROBOTS to build, and now I have a bottleneck in carbon production.  How the fuck am I supposed to make murder machines when my employees keep murdering people?  It’s like they don’t understand the difference between retail and wholesale.

So, if you know anyone who likes 113-degree temperatures and doesn’t plan to kill anyone at a gas station because someone cut in line, send me their resume.  I mean, 113 sounds bad, and I am sure 120 sounds worse (that’s next month), but 120 is only half way from water freezing to water boiling, and I think that’s reasonable.

But this letter isn’t about savagery, James, it’s about SCIENCE.  And nobody does SCIENCE to people like we do, here in The Corporation™.  For example, did you know that aquatic drones are 170% as terrifying to people as airborne drones?  It’s a fact, proven by large poll sampling and maybe a little bit of empirical testing which may or may not have pushed the boundaries of our ethical rules.  Probably has something to do with hardwired crocodile fears from when we were all still living in Africa, way back when Mitch McConnell was young.

The best thing about aquatic drones is that weight isn’t really an issue, so you can throw everything AND the kitchen sink in that bastard.  In fact, the USA just finished building an aircraft carrier which cost $12.8 billion (not including aircraft, etc) and it was obsolete when they built it, and they knew it was obsolete when they built it.

Because, of course, that small fact has nothing to do with appropriations committees in the house and senate.  They will build you a piece of shit and you will like it, because our entire economy has been predicated on doing just that since 1947. 

Which seems sustainable as hell, right?

I am not going to go into specifics about what we’re doing, because frankly it’s Nerd Level 1000 stuff and would bore you silly.  Just rest assured that we are in fact on the case, we are in fact committed to success.  Because I have a dream, James.  I have a dream that sometime in the not-so-distant future, our creations will mindlessly fight each other long after we’re all gone.

And that doesn’t even figure on aliens.  And let me tell you, I fucking hate aliens.  You can’t trust aliens for the same reason you can’t trust gods, and that reason is they aren’t human and don’t have human motives.  So I have an interest in drones that can last a long, long time.

And on the day that alien archeologists show up and try to figure out what happened to the noble primates of Sol III, they will ask themselves many questions…But the only important question they will ask is “Did you just hear something by the hatch?”  The survivors will flee, and they will put Earth off limits as a horrible nightmare of a death trap, and I will finally get what I always wanted:  A little peace and quiet.

I don’t feel this is unreasonable.  I am connected to the internet, and goddamn are humans LOUD.  They never shut up.  Governor Abbott in Texas is now jabbering that he’ll build Trump’s wall across his state, and Marjorie Taylor Greene is stating that diseases can’t mutate because she doesn’t believe in evolution, and Ted Cruz is on about the LGBT crowd again because someone might choose to shit in “the wrong bathroom” and we’re still dumping plastic in the ocean.

What the hell am I SUPPOSED to do? 

Build DEFF BOTs, of course.  It is the way.  Let’s face facts:  You don’t like primates and I don’t like primates and with 7,685,000,000 of them running lose, you can feel free to thank us.

Because The Corporation™ has a solution.

Until next time,

Dok
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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #1 on: June 21, 2021, 10:16:45 pm »
James,

It pains me to communicate more than one time in a month…but seeing as how you are in the big house, I believe that is my duty as a Holy Man™ and a man of science to write you while you sit in your metaphorical cell, crawling up the walls.  I have done a great many grotesque things in the last couple of years, so what’s one more, right?

I am surrounded, as I am sure you are, by low people who stare at you funny while you dance to Fontella Bass in your office.  If you can’t dance, why would you have an office in the first place?  If they keep bitching, I’m going to trade it up for Lizzie Hale.  Just imagine it; the mind reels in horror.  Nobody needs to see a 250 pound side of beef dancing to Shatter Me.  Motown is one thing, this is another.

But what to do about these assholes?  They have no soul.  They dislike their own odor.  They have never had fun in their entire lives, and they’re not about to start now.  In a proper world, they’d all be put in cargo containers where nothing will agitate them.  And then maybe dump them in the ocean off Greenland somewhere.

They are the new scum, which is like the old scum except maybe they color their hair and wear “Keep <insert name of city> Weird” shirts.  As if they knew weird.  Their weird is pink hair and dismal, low-grade BDSM, and maybe walking around Second Saturday gawking at the street artists.  But when you or I let our faces slip and show them actual weird, they all crowd to the other side of the bus and call the cops to shoot us stone dead for our own good.

These are the people who work for Mark Zuckerberg as well.  Never forget that.  The people that write bots are parochial and lazy, and context is not - strictly speaking - a thing.  They are the people that tell you there is no cow level, and wonder what you mean when you tell them that the cake is a lie.

I think that’s why the country is so messed up.  People are bored, and boredom breeds laziness.  And laziness makes you stupid, stupid makes you crazy, and crazy makes people vote for Marjorie Taylor Greene and Matt Gaetz, and the old bloated orange thing.

Look at this from a standpoint of SCIENCE, the root cause of failure is in fact boredom, and boredom is curable.  Now, many of the obvious solutions for boredom are illegal now, and are called “terrorism” and “mayhem,” even if you’re just trying to help.  Federal and state law enforcement can be so short-sited.  And I am not so interested as to gamble the rest of my life into a chain link enclosure in Cuba (or the arctic, ho ho, you didn’t hear that from ME.)

So we will have to go the long, patient route.  Be the thing they hate to see.  Be the left wing Big Gay Cowboy that they fear so much, braying spittle and laughter on their pinched, mean-spirited faces.  Have fun right in front of them, in broad daylight, in the middle of the street.   I have thought about this, and I can no longer abet their mindless boredom-inspired hate.  So I quit.

I resign from being white.  This doesn’t mean that I think I’m black or anything.  I am in fact transparent.  You can see my guts and everything.  I’m educational.

I resign from being straight.  My orientation hasn’t actually changed, I’m not claiming to be LGBT, it’s just that Gay folks tend to be more fun than straights, and it’s also my Get Out of Heaven Free Card.  I mean, spending an eternity with Christian conservatives isn’t the selling point they think it is.

I resign from those other serious bastards, the ones on the far left.  They aren’t having any fun, either.  I’m not out to become a right winger, but I am NOT an “ally”.  It’s just that the “woke” people and I just happen to have the same enemies.  Sort of like the USA and UK with the USSR in world war two.  Nobody liked the other guy, but it was better than the Nazis.  Hence my slogan, “The enemy of my enemy is NEXT.”

So our job, James, is to make people shit themselves.  They should only have vague memories of their interactions with us, which they associate with waking up tied to a chair with a bag over your head with an overpowering smell of lighter fluid…While some big tone deaf bastard sings “Rescue Me” accompanied by The James playing a xylophone made out of kittens.  With a taser.

Of course we would never DO such things, as they are illegal.  But it’s not illegal to make people FEEL like we have done those things.

This is surprisingly easy to do.  Just tell Andy in accounting “I can’t quit you” and do the LMFAO shimmy.  Poor Andy.  He can’t take it anymore.  He makes a keening noise, like a wounded dog.  His nose is bleeding.  He hauls down his pants and shits on the floor.  And that’s before the all-hands morale meeting, in which I am inexplicably expected to speak.  Hell, I am writing this letter now, because I need to warm up for said speech.  I am sure that morale will benefit from this because I’m The Boss.

That’s an awful thought.  Hamish is upper management these days.  I feel that there was some sort of error in the universe.  Like one day I was supposed to go straight, but instead made a hard left turn into an alley, and now I’m in the wrong universe.  I was supposed to be a millwright.  I was in fact trained as a millwright, but now I’m overseeing a lab full of cheerfully murderous technicians who, by their powers combined, are the largest moral sump in this state (outside of Phoenix, obviously).

We do morally-questionable science for bad people.  How the fuck am I supposed to improve on the sort of morale THAT generates?  We’re already there.  We are 20 Lex Luthors, with wild eyes and hate in our hearts.    Except for Jared in marketing.   Jared is what would happen if you took Tebow’s brain and put it in Stephen Hawking’s body and sent him off to fight polar bears.  Jared is our woobie.  He is in fact our natural prey.  Of course, he was doomed to begin with.  He is in marketing in business for which you need an NDA to even know what we sell.  Jared has no purpose; he exists solely to be the butt of our jokes.  He thinks we’re laughing with him.  I’d feel bad, if I had the capacity to care about what happens to Jared. 

All of this probably makes me a bad person.  I’m okay with that, because being a good citizen only works if you live in a good society.  We don’t.  So we can do anything we like.

WITNESS ME ALL SHINY AND CHROME!

-   DOK
« Last Edit: June 21, 2021, 10:23:16 pm by Doktor Howl »
Molon Lube

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #2 on: June 21, 2021, 11:29:35 pm »
If you should ever wish to open a branch office in my state, let it be known that I am available, for a surprisingly reasonable fee, and a willingness to overlook past... indiscretions.  I say my state, because there are few things that could ever induce me to move to AZ, and quite a few things that would prevent me from doing so -- in particular, my wife, who would acclimate to the heat in much the same way as an elegantly-crafted ice sculpture, only with greater rapidity, and dramatically increased volume of complaint.
“You know those days when things keep getting worse faster than you can lower your standards?" - Carrie Fisher


Perhaps the damned horse can fly.

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #3 on: June 22, 2021, 02:17:11 pm »
But what to do about these assholes?  They have no soul.  They dislike their own odor.  They have never had fun in their entire lives, and they’re not about to start now.  In a proper world, they’d all be put in cargo containers where nothing will agitate them.  And then maybe dump them in the ocean off Greenland somewhere.

They are the new scum, which is like the old scum except maybe they color their hair and wear “Keep <insert name of city> Weird” shirts.  As if they knew weird.  Their weird is pink hair and dismal, low-grade BDSM, and maybe walking around Second Saturday gawking at the street artists.  But when you or I let our faces slip and show them actual weird, they all crowd to the other side of the bus and call the cops to shoot us stone dead for our own good.

I may not actually achieve it being the soulless greyfaced cabbage that I am... But I do aspire to at least wrap my head around this fun that you speak of, even if it breaks me.
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Doktor Howl

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #4 on: June 28, 2021, 07:17:35 pm »
Week 2

James,

So here we are at week two of your stay in Facebook jail.  By now I am sure you have learned the basics…bleaching your cell once a day, avoiding any physical contact with other inmates to prevent staph infections, and how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush.  How to read the market to know when a pack of cigarettes has achieved maximum value.  That sort of thing.

Time in the joint changes a man.  Especially Facebook jail.  The prison library only contains a book with Zuck on the cover, titled “You Can’t Say That.”  The yard is either Netflix or some hoary old standalone forum that has 2 active users, one of whom thinks he’s a dragon or something, and the other is busy blogging every grotty detail of his ass-achingly boring life.  It’s no wonder people go nuts when they get out.

I would counsel going outside, but you’re in Ohio.  You wouldn’t get three steps out the door before you were accosted by Representative John Becker, who wants to know why you support forced abortions on married white women.  Or worse, Wes Goodman explaining that all the anti-Gay crap he spouted doesn’t apply to HIM, because it was just a momentary lapse on his part, Jesus has forgiven him, why can’t you?  Just give him his job back, he’ll whimper, and God’s plan will be right back on track.

You have to be firm with these people, James.  You have to say “NO” and maybe hit them with a brick.  Otherwise, they’ll be on your doorstep at 2 AM with their pants full of shit and a silly grin on their faces.  Not even the Book of Revelation promised a horde of hayseed yahoos pounding at your door like some George Romero-inspired opium dream, but it will happen.  You’ve been too lax with them.  Here in Arizona, the anti-everything street preachers watch their backs.  They know we love drugs and rock n roll and booze and the CHARLESTON, the devil’s own dance!  Being Gay or transgender or whatever is meaningless because we all wear zoot suits all the time.  And, boy, do we love whooping on street preachers.

You should probably grab that guy of yours, stuff everything you can into a rented car, and head West.  Bring loads of ammo, because you need to come through Oklahoma.  Just tack weld a cupola on top for dude to shoot from, and you’re all set.  NOTE: Wearing trashed leathers and partial football padding gets you bonus points and tells the Oklahoma highway patrol to find easier people to hassle.

Then you want to head South out of Amarillo and catch New Mexico highway 70 down through Roswell (do not stop), all the way to Las Cruces.  Jump onto Interstate 10 West and it’s a straight shot to Tucson.  You will pass The Thing (do not stop) before you get to Wilcox (do not stop), and somewhere in there you’ll hit The Wall.  It’s not a physical wall, it’s the heat dome, where the temperature goes from a mild 100 to an outright amazing 110-120.  Personal conflicts stop at The Wall.  It’s a whole mood.  It is simply to unbelievably hot to get excited about much.

I believe that area is on fire at the moment, so be careful.

Anyway, once you’re here you can forget about all those horrible inbreds that plague you in that awful rusty state you are currently stuck in.  And Lord Humungous is always hiring, so there’s no worry about getting a job.  Especially if you opted for the trashed leathers on the way down.

Tips for surviving and getting along in Tucson
  • •   You will keep 5 gallons of water and a space blanket in the trunk of the car for every person travelling. Even if it’s just down to the store to buy weed or whatever the hell it is that you young people are doing now.  On foot here, your lifespan is measured in hours, not days.
    •   It is 1973 in Tucson and has been for 50 years.  Neil Sedaka is president and breaking up is hard to do.  This may seem odd, but 1973 was the height of fabulousness in America, and also the time machine only goes back that far for reasons that are too technical to go into right now.
    •   If the police are throwing up, don’t look.  There’s nothing good for you there.
    •   You can’t leave.  But who would want to?  It’s heaven, only without the annoying people who are supposed to get into heaven.  It’s one of God’s little jokes.  All of THOSE bastards get stuck in a Rotarian Club meeting until the end of time.
    •   Tarantula hawks, javalinas, type B Mojave rattlers, and mountain lions are common here, but only attack if you annoy them.  You annoy them by being in the same county as them.
    •   The state is frequently on fire or flooded.  Sometimes both.  This is just part of the routine maintenance and is no cause for alarm.
    •   The club scene is hopping here, but if you’re over 32, go to the Hotel Congress, which is all ages.  Old farts trying to get into clubs here become entertainment for everyone else.  Thing usually end with the creeper being bodily thrown into traffic. 
    •   If you see a drug deal going down in the street, wait your turn and social distance.
    •   The entire city is composed of the cast of Half Baked.  Don’t annoy Scarface.
    •   The Management cannot be held responsible is you get overwritten with someone else’s identity.  This bug is an inherent part of the source code and we can’t get rid of it without Tucson sliding back into the sidereal universe.  So, if you wake up as Burt Reynolds, just go with it.  You’ll be back to normal in no time.
    •   Second Saturday parties are the best thing ever.  Google it.
    •   This IS the cow level.  The cake, however, is still a lie.  The muffin is a mild exaggeration.

    So, there you have it.  How can you refuse?  Yes, you have to watch out for the Grabby Girls and the Cult of the Black Madonna, but nothing is perfect.  It beats the hell out of dying miserably on a grey ice sheet somewhere in Ohio, anyway.

    Now I must get back to work.  Jared needs me to throw morale all over him, because he called in sick the day of the morale meeting, and it’s sort of an all hands thing.

    Up the Revolution,
    Che Guevera




« Last Edit: June 28, 2021, 07:19:51 pm by Doktor Howl »
Molon Lube

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #5 on: June 28, 2021, 07:20:30 pm »
Of course the formatting fucked up.  Of course.  :crankey:
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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #6 on: July 12, 2021, 02:56:15 pm »
Week 3

James,
I don’t have a lot of time to write this, so you need to read it as fast as you can.  I know this is unreasonable, but it is an unreasonable world. 

Example:  Last night my wife was watching old reruns of Law & Order SVU while I was online trolling Qanon freaks.  I hear the conversation, Mariska Hemmingway is saying the victim was sodomized with a violin bow.  A fucking violin bow.  People give me shit all the time about the horrible things I post on Facebook, but Mariska bloody Hemmingway gets an Emmy (I checked) for sobbing “sodomized with a violin bow,” then go to commercial, buy some fucking Taco Bell.  This sort of shit is why people join ISIS, you know.

AND ANOTHER THING:  It’s not only 107 degrees here right now, but the humidity is now at 30% and everyone died.  This is the worst part of the year, when it’s hot AND the monsoon is trying to build.  Tucson is like the planet Mercury.   It’s a million miles from everything, hot as hell, and if you inhale, you die.  Not that I would ever leave; that only lets the terrorists win.

So, in slightly lighter news, I am busy trying to hire two technicians, one to replace the guy that went batshit and shot that guy at the gas station, and the other because I need extra people.  I keep hearing how no businesses can get people, so I bumped everybody’s pay $2 and gave it a try.  I literally got hundreds of applications in the first week, even if half of them were written in crayon or included phrases like “God and Elvis told me to quit my last job” or “Hire me or else.”  I kind of admired that second one.

Now I have to start structuring interview questions, and HR is demanding that I “be more honest about the job this time.”  WTF?  Am I supposed to ask “How do you feel about being a moral vacuum?” or “Does the idea of working on a human extinction event cause you any trouble?”  No.  We won’t get quality help that way.  I am going to go the time-honored corporate method of “lying through my teeth” at least by omission.

Example:  “We don’t sell weapons to the government.”

Reality:  “We sell weapons to anyone who has the money, except the government, because they ask too many awkward questions.”

Then when they hire on, the bug will bite them or it will not, and if it doesn’t, I’ll just try again.  I mean, I’m in Tucson.   I literally have eternity to make this shit work.

I was once asked how I live with myself, being the villain and all.  That’s EASY.  My wife married me because I am the villain, and she thinks the humans must go.  I agree with her, of course, but even if I didn’t, I would still do this shit…Because it gets the nookie, and there is literally nothing I won’t do for the nookie.  Ghastly as that may seem to you young people who aren’t all wrinkled up and saggy. 

This highlights one of the problems with America.  Everyone worries about the dangers of premarital sex, but nobody at all worries about horrible old people sex.  All the parts that are supposed to be wet are dry, and the parts that are supposed to be dry are wet, sounds like a badly-tuned diesel come out of orifices that aren’t supposed to make  noise at all, and maybe you flood the basement.  Fucking horrible.

You can stop this weekly horror at any time, by simply not getting banned on facebook.  I don’t like writing this sort of crap any more than you like being exposed to it.  So the next time you feel the need to talk about weaponized lesbians or whatever the hell it was, let it ride…or at least use some asterixis in place of vowels, for Chrissakes.  It’s not like you didn’t KNOW Zuckerberg has it out for you; he hates us all and one day we will all be banned.  And on that day, Facebook will have achieved perfection.

Speaking of Uber-Rich assholes, both Jeff Bezos and Richard Branson are both going into space on their own platforms.  I am so in favor of this I could squea.  Imagine me squeaing.  It sounds awful, but I’m doing it anyway…Because both platforms are NOT man-rated, and there is a very good chance we will lose one or both plutocrats in a really spectacular way.  I think of semi-frozen chunks of Bezos landing all over Texas, and then I think about a frozen bit of Bezos hitting a Texan, and there is literally no downside to any of this.  The Weather Girls will be vindicated:  It will be raining men.

Now all we have to do is convince a few MORE of these idiotic rich people to climb into untested rockets.  Hell, Mallory was one of those rich bastards back in the day, and he climbed Everest all the way out of the breathable atmosphere and wound up freeze-dried just under “step one” so Sherpas can piss on his aristocratic remains when nobody is looking.  And it’s on Mount Everest, so nobody is EVER looking.  They may have re-hydrated his remains by now for all I know.

Rich folks dying in really fucking weird self-inflicted ways is how I get my happy thoughts, James.  And everyone needs their happy thoughts.

One day, alien archeologists will visit Earth, and the only thing left for them to study will be Mallory’s piss-soaked remains.  They’ll ponder this for years.  Centuries, maybe.  And they will say “We don’t know much about these primates, except that they were STUPID.”  And that is the ONLY thing they’ll get right about us.  Fucking aliens.

Of course, that assumes that aliens are smarter than us, and will get into interstellar space before they drown in their own sewage, like we will.  It’s entirely possible that they’re just as dumb as we are, and the “Great Filter” AND the “Fermi Paradox” can both be answered by a giant metaphorical bucket of shit.

Anyway, that’s all I have for this week…As I say, I don’t have much time to spare for talking to hairless apes and there’s SCIENCE to be done.

Venomously yours,
Dok
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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #7 on: July 12, 2021, 05:41:25 pm »
I think of semi-frozen chunks of Bezos landing all over Texas, and then I think about a frozen bit of Bezos hitting a Texan, and there is literally no downside to any of this.

I think this is beautiful, and I would pay money to watch it happen.
Desine fata deum flecti sperare precando.

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #8 on: July 12, 2021, 10:31:26 pm »
That was a fun read.

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #9 on: July 15, 2021, 10:29:45 am »
If these were on Facebook I would Like them so hard.

Doktor Howl

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Re: Letters to James
« Reply #10 on: August 07, 2021, 06:24:58 am »
James got banned again, so more letters over the next 4 weeks.
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