Misc.

“1)Awww. Dukie Wookie hurt his widdle hand.
2)#&%!$ you, Archie. Just for that you're not in the gang anymore.”

“


Damage produced in silica glass under dynamic compression is evinced by a wing crack
(grey) and nanocavities (color) in these snapshots from a molecular dynamics simulation.

Physical Review Letters, Volume 95, Issue 13
http://prl.aps.org/covers/95/13

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Eye Candy

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The Spiders from Mars

Mars’ carbon dioxide atmosphere partially condenses every winter to form polar caps of dry ice. In the spring, the evaporation of the ice is a dynamic process and carves channels into the ground as it escapes back into the atmosphere. Often these channels are radial in nature, and are colloquially refered to as “spiders,” although the prefered term for these radially-organized channels is “araneiform” which means spider-like. In this subimage all the seasonal frost is gone, and we can use stereo images or shadow measurements to measure the depth of the channels carved into the ground, typically 1 - 2 meters deep. Credit: NASA/JPL/University of Arizona

Interspace News







Ziggy played guitar, jamming good with Weird and Gilly
And the Spiders from Mars
He played it left hand but made it too far
Became the special man, then we were Ziggy's band

Ziggy really sang, screwed up eyes and screw down hairdo
Like some cat from Japan, he could lick 'em by smiling
He could leave 'em to hang
Became on so loaded man, well hung and snow white tan

So where were the Spiders while the fly tried to break our balls?
Just the beer light to guide us
So we #&%!$ed about his fans and should we crush his sweet hands?

Ziggy played for time, jiving us that we were voodoo
The kids were just crass, he was the Nazz
With God given ass
He took it all too far but boy could he play guitar

Making love with his ego, Ziggy sucked up into his mind
Like a leper messiah
When the kids had killed the man I had to break up the band

Oh… yeah

Ziggy played guitaaarrrrrr





The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
David Bowie

”

“http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWCOYJg9ps4&feature=player_embedded

Two girls...two cups”

“Uhm, shouldn't that be two girls....4 "cups".”

“... 6 cups.”

“Grem beat me....

Video is Safe For Work.
last edited: 10/07/09 9:50:31 AM”

“And I wasn't even a math teacher, eh?”

“Blues Brother Elwood worked in a meat packing factory, and that's why he only ate bread.”

“NASA bombed the fùcking moon.”

“
Bender Bending Rodriguez (Bending Unit 22) was built in Mexico, grew up in North Plainfield, New Jersey and went to Rutgers. His birthday is September 4th.


Benderisms:

"Bite my shiny metal ass. "
(the usual)

"Bite my red-hot glowing ass."

"Bite my splintery wooden ass."

"Bite my glorious golden ass."

"Bite my colossal metal ass."

"Lick my frozen metal ass!"
(in Winter, on a skiing vacation)

"The modern world can bite my splintery wooden ass. "
(when on the island of Luddite Robots)


Fry (Philip J.) has a tattoo of Bender’s head on his ass holdng
a cigar in his teeth.

”

“Where's the thread with all the damn jackoff jokes and #&%!$?


Oh Well ------

Here's a Classic on par with Twain’s ‘The dog, not the Chief,’ Mason Williams’ “How to derive the maximum enjoyment from crackers” and Brian Doyle Murray’s “A man walks into a nightclub with a beautiful girl on his arm”.


Dalton Trumbo’s Masturbatory Epistle to his Son


My Dear Son,

I am sending you two books I think appropriate for a young man spending 5/7ths of his time in the monkish precincts of John Jay Hall. The first is Education of a Poker Player, by Herbert O. Yardley. Read it in secret; hide it, whenever you leave quarters, and you’ll be rewarded with many unfair, but legal, advantages over friend and enemy alike.

The second book I think you should share with your young companions. It is: Sex Without Guilt, by a man who will take his place in history as the greatest humanitarian since Mahatma Gandhi: Albert Ellis, PhD. This good man has written what might be called a manual for masturbators. The result (mailed in plane wrapper under separate cover) is one of those fortuitous events when the right man collides with the right idea at precisely the right time.

This whole new approach, this fresh wind blowing under the sheets, so to speak, this large hearted appeal for cheerful self pollution invokes, perhaps, a deeper response in my heart than in most for I sneaky, timorous, incontinent little beast with my Pavian obsessions was never wholesomely at home with my penile problem, all because of that maggoty, mountainous pustule of needless guilt that throbbed like an abscess in my young boys heart.

On warm summer nights while exuberant girl-hunting contemporaries scampered in and out of the brush under high, western stars, I, dedicated fool, lie swooning in my bed with no companion save the lewd and smirking demons of my bottomless guilt. Cowering there in seminal darkness, liquescent with self-loathing, attentive only to the stealthy rise and Krafty-Ebbing of my dark scrotumnal blood, fearful as a lechwe, yet firmer of purpose than any rutting buffalo, I celebrated the rights of Shuah’s son with solemn resignation. Poor little chap on a summers night, morosely masturbating…! Tut, tut, tut.

Even now, more than three decades later, even now when I forget a friends name, or mislay my spectacles, or pause in mid-sentence idiocy even now such lapses set a clammy chill upon my heart.

It’s then, while panic tightens my sagging throat, that I whisper to myself: “It’s true after all. It does make you crazy! It does cause the brain to soften. Why, oh why did I like it so much?! Why didn’t I stop while I was ahead of the game?! Ah well, little good to know it now. The harm's done, the jig's up, you’re thoroughly rattled, better you’d been born with handless stumps.

I recall a certain chill, Winter night on which my father took me to one of those Calvinist fertility rights disguised as a father and son banquet. Master of the revels was an acrid old goat named Horace T. McGuiness.

He opened his discourse with a series of blasphemous demands that the Almighty agree with his ghastly notions, and then got down to the meat of the program, which, to no ones surprise, was girls. When you go out with a young lady, he slavered you go out with your own sister! It seemed plain to me that if one day I did burst upon the world as the hymeneal Genghis Khan of my dreams, I would be in for an extremely incestuous time of it.

I can still hear that demented old reprobate howling his bill of particulars against poor Onan, the Bible’s first recorded masturbator, shaking his fist at us and sweating like a diseased stoat. “He wasted his seed! Oh monstrous, shameful, nameless act — he spilled it right out onto the ground! All of it! And this displeased the Lord, and the Lord slew him!” He rushed on to a warning against the most dangerous period of a boy’s day, which he leeringly defined as those last ten minutes before the coming of blessed sleep. This period, he rasped, was Onan’s hour, that dread time of temptation which separated the men from boys. He commanded us, on pain of Onan’s fate, as we loved God, loathed sin, and cherished our immortal souls thenceforth to sleep with our hands outside the covers. Whereupon we were ordered to rise en masse, lift high our swearing arms and take the pledge.

Well. You can imagine how I felt, poor shuddering pertinacious masturbating little dolt! My young companions, their faces shining with devotion, rose like eager chipmunks to recite that preposterous oath as solemnly as if it were a prayer. I felt compelled to join them, my skin flushing beet-red beneath a field of yellow pimples then riotously in bloom from the base of my throat to the farthest border of my scalp. When I went to bed that night the thermometer shivered at twenty-three degrees below zero. I slept alone on an open porch with only a dismal flap of canvas to separate my quarters from those glacial Winter winds that howled on the other side of it. Shuddering like a greyhound b!tch in heat I burrowed beneath mounded covers. My congealing breath formed a beard of frost on the quilt beneath my chin. My pale hands, like twin sacrificial lambs, lay freezing outside the covers. It made no sense at all to me, yet I’d been gulled into taking their peccant oath, and now in my own dim-witted fashion I proposed to keep it. It was Onan’s hour.

While I lay there pondering Onan’s fate, nerves twitching, gonaducts aflame, ten chilly digits convulsively plucking at my counterpane, I tried to divert my tumescent thoughts from their obsession. I thought on heroes and their heroism — on Perseus, Jason, Odysseus, Achilles — and I wondered if they too had shared my feelings of inadequacy and shame. Thus musing, I fell asleep.

The next morning I was rushed off whooping to the hospital, brought low with quick pneumonia and seven frostbit claws. There are still other stories I could tell you, but if my point isn’t made by now it never will be. Yet, the more I think on it, the more positive I become that you will never truly be able to comprehend, in all its horror, that interminably sustained convulsion which was your father's youth. It’s only reasonable that this should be so, since you had so many advantages that were denied to me. To name but three of them: a private room, a masturbating father and Albert Ellis, Ph.D.

The debt I owe Dr. Ellis cannot be measured, for through him I have finally found relief from my adolescent guilt and come to realize that I was, in truth, an example and a martyr for all who’d gone before me and for endless millions still to come. For that’s what it amounts to, son. I carried the ball for all of us, and carried it farther than anyone had a right to expect. I was the Prometheus of my secret tribe, a penile virtuoso, a gonadic prodigy, a spermatiphorous thunderbolt: in fine, a masturbator’s masturbator.

I am still, as you may suspect, somewhat distraught from reliving for your instruction the calamitous tale of my youth. That it’s been painful I can’t deny, but what is pain compared to the immeasurable satisfaction of being a proper Dad to you? I am also, perhaps, too deeply under the literary and erotic spell of Lolita, which I’ve read four straight times in four straight days. If you don’t know the book, you must get it at once. This chap Nabokov, like Dr. Ellis, is a way-shower, one of those spirits who understands that everything under the sun has its time and place and joy in an ordered world.

Yr. Obt. Svt.

Pop





from Trumbo (2007)
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0889671/

”

“For some reason the term "spontaneous utterance" comes to mind...LOL”

“http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhQ4dE_RGnQ&feature=player_embedded

anvil shooting”

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Yog-Sothoth, y_all.

(yeah, you #&%!$s better run!     LMAO)

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“That is one of my all time favorite stories. I think it would make an awesome movie, if dome properly.”

“These guys produced an old-time radio interpretation…. Not bad. They_re the same outfit that sells those Miskatonic U. Antarctic Expedition hoodies and lots of other bizarre things. They_ve done a few low budget films, too, but I haven_t checked out any of those yet.

Homepage

First editions, anyone? [sorted by asking price, highest first (ouch)]”