Because living in fiction beats the alternatives.


Every time one looks at information about global warming, one always sees the same graphs with the so-called "hockey-stick-shaped" curve of carbon dioxide levels. A seemingly innocent enough metaphor, until one pokes beneath the surface. Where, exactly, does one see hockey sticks in the greatest numbers? That's right, Canada! And what does Canada have to do with global warming, you may ask?

Have you ever considered that Canada is, at present, a frozen hellhole only made tolerable through the mass consumption of beer? Global warming, however, stands to change that. As the real tropics heat up into insufferable infernos, the formerly glacial wilds of Canada will thaw into tropical paradises. Tourism will spike as people flock to the sunny, warm beaches of British Columbia. The icy grip on its heartland will give way to the world's breadbasket. As the rest of the planet starves, Canada will sell them food at exorbitant prices, laughing all the way to the bank.

But wait, that's not all! Canada also has vast reserves of oil they've been hoarding for decades, whining about "oil shales" and "cost of extraction" and other things no one understands. It's really just a plot to distract us and make us forget about the link between oil and global warming. Once we've pumped the Middle East dry, Canada will "miraculously" find a way to extract the oil, but still at high prices, and we'll be too petroleum-starved to care, as we send them all our money for a gallon of gas and some bread, and dream of being able to afford a visit.

Greedy bastards, the lot of them, except for the Quebecois, who want nothing to do with the rest of the filthy schemers.

An Excerpt from Njáls Saga 2.0

And then did Snorri post to the message board that Björn was a twit who could not find his ass with two hands and Google Maps, and he linked to his Flickr account where Björn was drunk and passed out at Uppsala. When Björn learnt of this, he flew into a rage, and insulted Snorri's mother. Seizing his sword, he charged off to avenge his name, but Siðrun called him on his Nokia and reminded him the law did not sanction killing for this crime, so Björn sent Snorri a DMCA takedown notice instead.

Don't bring a coconut to a knife fight

So, the other day, I went to open up a coconut I'd bought a while back. I in no way expected it to pull a knife on me. Admittedly, I was already threatening it with a knife myself, but it was, after all, a mere coconut, not known for its self-defense capabilities or general preparedness. In any case, one second I'm thinking "tasty snack" and the next it's all "overgrown fruit going at me with three inches of tempered Scandinavian steel" Bastard got me good in the finger—knife went all the way through, blood everywhere, but it was my left hand, and while it was pulling the blade back out, I jabbed its eyes out with a screwdriver. Then, while it was flailing about wildly, I finished it off with a blow to the head with my trusty orange-handled hammer. Crunch, threat over. After that, it was just a trip to the emergency room to get epoxied back together (ah, the miracles of technology) and have a tetanus shot—no telling where that damn coconut kept its knife. Stupid thing got the best of me in the end, though; it was just on the rotten side of inedible. From now on, I'm going to let other people slaughter my coconuts.

Overheard at the new pirate orientation…

"Arr, rules, they be more like guidelines. You best be checkin' yer HR packet for the details. And Thursday morn' be the sexual harassment training. Tis be important that all new scaliwags be knowin' how to properly engage in sexual harassment afore we reach Tortuga."

"And now, if ye be turnin' to page seven of yer pamphlets, I'll be outlinin' the stock option program and how ye can earn bonus shares o' booty for valor and such in the midst o' boardin' enemy vessels. The easy-ta-use BootyTracker™ system presents you with a rundown o' accumulated loot, vacation days, and medical benefits. Aye, we cover full dental and prosthetic limbs, includin' a trained monkey ta help ya if ye be too injured to work."

Different Kinds of Lonely

Chapter 1

E___ came home after a long day of work, found J___, and kissed him. Then, she went to look for some ice cream, and found none. She asked J___ what had become of all the ice cream, and he answered, "I was lonely."

Chapter 2

E___ went up to her workshop and spent the day working. Then, she went looking for ice cream, and found none. She asked J___ what had become of all the ice cream, and he answered, "I was lonely." E___ replied, "But I was here all day," to which J___ said, "I wasn't lonely for you. I was lonely for ice cream."

Piano falls on a non-player character

Enter, stage right, Philip, a youth of Verona. He is gaily dressed, yet his features are morose.

Philip: Oh, but woe is my lot, for fair Hilda has made mock of me under the stars. Cursed stars, they bring doom with their light, shining from on high as unpiteous seraphs.

Enter, stage left, Petruccio, an old man. His face is flushed and his eyes betray mischief.

Petruccio: What wailing is this? What ho? Do the youth of the city have naught to do on such a clear evening but weep and pine?

Philip: Oh, gentle sir, do not mock my state, for Fate has never dealt me so poor a hand as she has this night. I am at my wit's end!

Petruccio: Your misfortunes are but a bee's sting before the goring of a bull. Those stars at which you hurl your accusations do foretell great ill, but not for you.

A piano falls from the ceiling, lands amidst the audience, and a man in the second row is crushed to death. Its strings twang sadly amidst its splintered wood.

End Scene

Speech of Freedom

My fellow Americans.  In light of the increasing strain placed upon our nation's oil supply and the subsequent effect on prices, we have decided to take drastic action.  Our fine military and the keen minds in the Department of Energy have tried their best, but now it's time to turn to the Bureau of Weights and Measures.

Starting tomorrow, the gallon as you know it will be called the "Milk Gallon", and it will continue to be used to deliver healthy, government-subsidized cow juice to your local supermarket.  Gasoline, on the other hand, will now be sold in "Tank Gallons", which are half the size of a Milk Gallon.  In one fell swoop, we will undo the huge price increases seen in the past few years, and Americans can go back to comfortably paying just a little over a dollar a gallon.

However, we could not let the environmental consequences of this act ruin our nation.  To offset the Tank Gallon, car mileage will now be calculated using the "Engine Gallon", which is twice the size of a Milk Gallon.  Not only will American gas be cheaper than anyone else's, our cars will also get more miles to the gallon than anyone else's.  Again, we will leap to our rightful place as leaders of energy conservation and distribution.  I think we should all give the smart folk over at Weights and Measures a big hand!

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'…

d20s are filthy and morally wrong.  Evil wizards in Seattle seek to recruit our children into the d20 lifestyle, where they routinely touch ball-shaped dice, roll them with unholy glee, and then do it again.  We need to ban d20s for the safety of the nation.  Terrorists use d20s to kill innocent babies.  d20s cause cancer, insanity, sweaty palms, acne, and lycanthropy.  d20 is a four-letter word, if you count digits as 1.5 letters.  d20 manufacturers include explicit content inside the die that can be unlocked with illegal patches downloaded from peer-to-peer networks filled with pirated music made by knocking d20s together.  d20s are the antichrist.

d6s are the dice god intended; even the Earth itself is a cube.  d10s are alright, as long as they don't get rolled along with d6s.  Such unnatural intermingling of dice is sinful and should be illegal.  After all, if you roll a d6 and a d10 together, you can use them to simulate a d20, and we need the DMCA to prevent this in order to let us sleep safely at night.

Old Goat, New Tricks

The troll pulled open the glass door, and tromped on in to the McGrimm's, the Golden Bridges over the door boldy highlighting the way. Inside, he stood for a few seconds, adjusting to the light, and scratched at the wart on his nose with the tree trunk he carried around for this purpose. Perusing the menu, he made up his mind and got in line. In front of him was a man with a young girl hanging on to his pant leg. "Look, daddee! I's a monster!"

The father took her hand and turned back towards the counter, whispering at her, "Now dear, it's not nice to make a fuss."

A seeming eternity later, the troll reached the counter. With a deep, booming voice, he called out, "I'd like the McGoat combo, and make the drink a Coke."

The pimply high schooler behind the counter stared at him through greasy glasses and asked in a nasal voice, "Uh, we don't have Coke. Is Pepsi fine?"

"Yes, yes."

"Oh, and I can supersize that for 59¢."

"Uh, good, do that."

"I, uh, can supersize it again for another 59¢."

"Sure, do it again."

And then the supersupersized McGoat sandwich reared up and charged right at the troll, bun-butting him square in the chest and sending him flying through the restaurant's front window, landing on the asphalt with a tinkle of broken glass. "No shirt, no shoes, no service, baaad-boy! Cantcha read?!"