The mechanics of the entire operation were complicated. Very complicated. The Uppers weren’t even releasing a name for the technology. The papers all kept mum about the operation. It was another “Politikal Experiment.” The people needn’t concern themselves.
The briefing came at 0500. The com buzzed two shorts and a long dash in my ear–the signal that a sensitive message was about to be transmitted. The mission, the drab voice said over the com, was an issue highly important to the people. I was one of five. We were to be at the Space Probe lab in 3 hours. The launch was to take place in approximately 15 hours. Good day.
I walked into the lab feeling somewhat disoriented. The satellite we were on was an older model, only apparently so by aesthetics. The technology was updated constantly, and the interior was never allowed to become even slightly dirty. The AI system identified me and offered some non-caffeinated coffee upon my entrance. Three others waited in the room. I knew none of them. For the purposes of this mission, we were called by our assigned numbers. I was eight dash thirty-two, lead officer.
We readied the vehicle. It was a strange looking apparatus. Weighing over 20 tonnes, the system was largely made of a hyper-sensitive light collecting material not yet named. The transport was another complex matter. It wasn’t my area of expertise, but I understood the basic premise. This vehicle was going to travel at an astounding rate, over one million times the speed of light. I didn’t know how this was possible, or even if the premise held as a form of motion. The techs usually referred to it as teleportation. We were going to launch the device to a distance of about 10,000 light years from our planet. The voyage would take a little over three and a half days.
This is where my work came in. I had worked in optics and light transmission throughout my career at the Politikal offices. My specialty was lenscrafting. The resolution achieved with the device we were sending, combined with the optics I had designed, would be enough, if the theoretical data held true, to make out faces on Earth, from a distance of 10,000 light years. Resolution isn’t the right word; this form of imaging crossed into a new field entirely. The data that we collected was entirely raw light signals, but they were complete. We could focus entirely on the earth and collect just the light emitted, and we were going to record history.
The launch went as planned, and seven days later, we received a signal from the craft. It was in place. Now, if the programming did its job, and the theories held true, we were recording activity on our planet. Ten thousand years ago.
~ 8–32. Space Probe Lead
The following post is a mash-up of all of my drafts. They are not meant to, nor do they, make a whole lot of sense. Enjoy.
To the people of America, not including those not residents of the United States and the Virgin Isles, I bid you good morning. It is with great pleasure and pride that I stand here to address you this evening.
*kkkrrrrkkkk TV static*
Those words are funny, are they not? They can lead to one or several of a nearly infinite pool of results. They could prompt destruction, or they could forbear the tidings of an unheard-of miracle cure. They could bring about a completely ridiculous idea, or they could hearken the coming of a perfectly marvelous proposition. This is bound to be of the former.
What if blogs were sentient? You know, they could could think thoughts and feel emotions. What would they say? Could they learn from the others in their realm, or would they be limited to the input provided them by their owners? In a way, any writing is alive through its readers, especially when the ideas contained within prompt discussion and debate, but what if the blog itself could observe its readers, form opions on its contents, and think about world events? What would it say?
I was going to write an article on hipsters. In fact, it was even requested of me, but I found the task inconceivably difficult, nigh insurmountable. Being the lazy chap that I am, I decided to write something vaguely close.
Everyone should have some taste of the nerd culture at some point in his or her life. Nerds are everywhere, especially in their natural habitat: the internet. To effectually know what a nerd is talking about, one must first understand several key concepts and phrases. I have compiled a list of said items.
The knowledge and even usage of certain nerd culture terms does not make one a nerd; many people will mix in references to popular nerd culture in their regular conversation. Let’s start off with the most basic of nerd languages, 1337 5p34k (leet speak).
1337 can be fairly inconsistent, as the language is not “officially” regulated. The goal is to substitute as many common roman letters with numbers or symbols. The language can be fairly cryptic; for example, if I wished to write my blog name as ><4n7|-|u5|<1|)|), this could easily confuse someone not familiar with the regular text name.
Moving on, many tv shows and movies contain token lines and items that are commonly referenced by nerds. Doctor Who, Star Wars, and Star Trek are incredibly popular examples.
The time, my friends, has indeed been long since we last discussed the theories and principles that govern the common views of food. The psychological influences and contributors were discussed in the last installment, but this post aims to bring the focus back to the theological. This article will focus on certain doctrines held by the believers in one true Chef.
Unfortunately, much contention has always existed amongst the followers of the Chef. Two chief factions of the Chef-followers have emerged.
Once upon a time, in a little metropolis, there lived a woman and her only daughter. Her daughter was a very kind little girl; everyone in the apartment complex loved her. She was given a red hoodie with little green zipper pulls when she was little, and that shirt and her iPhone were her constant companions throughout life. In fact, she was known throughout the community as Little Red iPhone Hoodie (or simply Red, for short).
As with all young girls of her age and era, she loved silly bandz, Apple products, and other shiny things. Unlike most of the children her age, she was very nice-tempered and kind towards others. One day, her mother asked her to take a new pair of headphones to Red’s grandmother. The girl obligingly complied, for she knew that there were many silly bandz shops along the streets on the way to her grandmother’s house. So, Red started on her way, looking at silly bands and finding all sorts of pretty things in the shops.
*kkkrrrrkkkk…. moar TV static*
I have a confession to make. I HATE (with capital everythings) the crunching sound of people eating.* This isn’t just a petty annoyance or a minor peeve. This is a major thing. The real deal. An Article of Maximum Disturbance. You know that scene in Return of the King in which Denethor is munching on some snacks whilst Merry sings to him? That is my least favorite movie scene of all time. The foley is disgusting and disgusts me. Needless to say, I was disgusted.
Now, I’m pretty bad at ranting; in fact, I’ve pretty much run out of things to say, but here is a list of unforgivables–things that could get you banned from this blog. FOREVER.
- The crunching of one’s non-crunchy food is not to be tolerated.
- The talking of one upon one’s phone should be minimal in volume.
- When eating, one should take care to keep one’s food within one’s mouth at all times.
And that’s all he wrote.
The atmosphere was one of light-hardheartedness and general mirth. Small talk and generic persiflage tickled the ears of passersby; the ubiquitous red shirts and old-style, ripped blue jeans that comprised the uniform of the shopkeepers might have been distracting, had the scene itself not provided a multiplicity of foreign and wild distractions. The floors were scattered haphazardly with tiles of multifarious shape and style. The mad colors blended with the dull grout and otherwise quotidian construction of the old building. Indeed, had those employed been dressed in naught but their essentials, the newcomer to this exhibit would have thought it none the stranger nor less fantastic. The walls held hand-painted murals and glass mosaics of nefarious looking poultry and graphic demembrations of various fowl. Many have pondered the state of consciousness of the artist from whose mind these images came: demented, insane, inebriated?
The establishment manages, somehow, to escape giving the impressions of a spurious or dubious nature. The real danger lies in the posterior of the curious shop. The clandestine–nay, even surreptitious–operations of those who work behind the visible operation. Indubitably, the operations were properly sanctioned through the various and customary routes of authoritarian government obtainment of permissions, yet when one was allowed into the cookery, the crushing reality of the atrocities committed therein were brought to light. Composed of the organization was this verse of undoubted truth and verisimilitude:
‘Twas a scene so foul, In the indeterminable bowel,
Of that terrible, queer, and violent store.
The place did give, of its own derive,
A feeling and aura, reminisce of Pandora,
Hidden behind that deathly door.
For whom did it open? For what was within?
What could in the dreadful unknown be?
There behind that door of metal,
Wrought from pan, pot, and kettle,
There work the ones who peddle,
The lovely fried goodness, we call, KFC.