Tag Archives: science

Maximum AI

Well that’s it then. It’s all over.

Plato. Lincoln. Einstein. Parks. Tendulkar. Churchill and Pryor. Schindler. Tubman. Wilberforce, Hendrix and Peel. Johnson and Jonson. Fleming. Pankhurst. Dec.

These names and so many more light up the sky like Sana’a at dusk. The history of humanity is a tale of triumph against the odds. But every good thing must come to an end, and that end is upon us.

Someone has actually built a T-800.

Continue reading Maximum AI

Cataclysmically sucked off

Well, it’s certainly a big fucker, innit, measuring as it does 27 kilometers. Lying underneath the Franco/Swiss border, it’s reputed to be the largest machine on Planet Earth. It looks like something out of a Bond movie, a colossal and expensive machine intended to study the ultimate building blocks of all matter, and in particular to search for the Higgs boson, known as the God particle because of its postulated commanding role in explaining how subatomic particles interact with each other.

So, what did you think?

Was it was the greatest scientific endeavour since the (disputed) Apollo moon landings, or – like the type of folk who once believed that an atom bomb blast would ignite the entire atmosphere, or that train travel was impossible due to the human body being unable to withstand speeds of 24 mph – did you think that it would open a gateway allowing Our Lord Satan to enter our world?

Me? I felt cheated.

At the time, the thing that I did find rather distressing was the mention (admittedly in the less scientific quarters) that, when the last AA batteries were finally inserted, some ‘mini’ black holes could be accidentally created. And doesn’t that sound to you like an oxymoron?

“It’s alright folks, it’s only a mini black hole”.

“Oh, okay.”

I mean, I’m no scientist, honest, but surely a black hole is an awesome, indescribably powerful phenomenon. The fact that they now apparently come in ‘mini’ size did not offer me too much consolation.

I mean, black holes; they’re just not the same as Mars Bars, or ladies skirts, are they?
It’s like saying a mini cataclysm, or a minor apocalypse – can these things ever be less than fucken momentous?

And how the fuck do you make a black hole anyway? I’m guessing, and again I must reiterate that I’m guessing so as not to lend too much credence to my musings (for they are only that; I’m no fisiks boffin furfuxake), that the answer may be rather simple – step number one: you make a mini black hole.

Any yet, despite the combined brain efforts of billions of boffins, and the pissing up against a wall of literally thousands of money (or was it the other way around? The finer details are already sketchy to me) the mighty Death Metal Colander sucked, and we failed, yet again, to destroy man’s oldest nemesis: the Earth.

It was all just a bunch of bullshit, wasn’t it?

Some egg-headed fools promised that maybe, ‘round about 8.30am, on the morning of the 10th September 2008, when the Metallic Machine (in reality probably just the world’s longest torch) was plugged in, we would all be cataclysmically sucked off into another dimension.

And we weren’t.

Not even a wee bit.

What a pisser.

It was even predicted, by a few of the less enlightened boffins, that when the promised black hole was conjured up we’d all have roughly eight to ten minutes before our eyeballs were sucked through our pulsing bodies and out of our collective cocks, draining us away down a cosmic plug hole, forever. I forget the actual physics.

Some even put forward the proposition that, mibee, those last ten minutes would wind strangely back on themselves, like a snake swallowing it’s own tail, and we’d be forced to repeat those final moments over and over and over and over and over again. To infinity, and beyond, I believe was the time scale quoted, though I may have to recheck my sources on that.

And I can recall thinking on the morning of that fateful day; in an ideal (end of the) world, how would I like to spend those remaining/ever repeating final last 10 minutes?

It’s a good question, innit?

Of course, in actual real reality, how did I spend that historic moment?

If I remember correctly, I took a nice, if rather large shit, and thunk up all this old bollocks.

And failed, once again, to be sucked off.

Note: Since this article was written existence of the Higgs particle has indeed been confirmed, by data from the LHC, in 2013. Also, since the time of writing I can confirm that the author has still failed to be sucked off.

Now the nuts don’t work

I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t allow any person to stick their fist into my anus. I’m sure there are people who love it, and I’m sure evidence of that is a brief tap of the keyboard away, but I’m afraid it’s not for me.

I wonder, do the people who enjoy this activity look at me with pity, as though if I would only arch my back I would understand the ecstasy it can bring? Do they share stories of their own gaping arseholes with similarly bucket-reared friends, just loudly enough for the closed-minded likes of me to hear? Do they talk about me when I’m not there, perhaps even run through pro-fisting arguments they can try on me to show me the error of my ways?

Entirely unrelated, I also don’t want to have children. At this point anyone reading this who has children will have their ears pricked up like a dog in a pitch-black room sensing another animal sniffing its ringpiece.

I’ve just seen something that I now have to quote as read, to share the unmistakable taste of stomach acid tickling the back of my tongue.

“I am a father. I have one child – a little girl who is almost 2. She is absolutely amazing and means everything to me. Being a father is very special. However, being a father to a little girl is such a unique and amazing relationship.”

It’s the word ‘special’ I object to (most), much the same way as I object to ‘awesome’. If everything is ‘awesome’ where do we have left to go? I like things that inspire awe, but like kebabs and wanking I don’t want one every few minutes.

And if being a parent is so ‘special’, how come there have been so fucking many of them? I know science has moved on apace lately but the number of people who have had a father is still exactly equal to the number of people there have been, as I understand it.

I’m at the age when not having kids is seen as weird so I’ve decided now I’m going to explain to everyone who starts on this fucking never-ending subject that I have a double varicocele, a swelling of the veins that has drained both my testicles of the all-important juice that only lucky men can use to create a civilisation with one single shot. There’s no known cure, though it’s possible to squeeze a tiny amount of ejaculte out past my throbbing capilliaries if I make sure I fill my life with enough drink, drugs, gigs, holidays, unwanted electronic devices, trips to the cinema and people to do the cleaning for me. Exactly the kinds of thing parents can’t afford, but we all have our crosses to bear.

I will go into as much intentionally gruesome detail as you need about the massive red disease that has snuffed out my only chance at life’s main pleasure and ultimate goal, right up until the point you shut the fuck up about your children and how I really should help cure the world’s human shortage. I’ll stop explaining how I have to milk and milk and milk myself in ever more mind-bending positions the moment you admit that your obsession with children is a pathetic attempt to obtain the immortality you feel you, yes you rather than just your genes, deserve.

Either that or I’ll agree to have kids immediately if you lube yourself up and bend the fuck over. Your choice, daddy.