Tinker Toys For The Aspiring Destroyer of Worlds

Tinker Toys For The Aspiring Destroyer of Worlds


I don’t know what game this is, but I want it. I want a copy for every single one of my friends, so we can all get together and plot the destruction of the Western World with our army of flaming, explosive-spewing super-tanks. I’ll insist on adding more cannons and spikes to our contraptions, so we have a Mad Max via Bismarck vibe. If the Germans can do one thing it’s generate a great nation-stomping vibe. What they do after they get that vibe going can be very controversial; they seem to have a history of flattening their neighbors whenever the mood takes them.

Theoretically, if we all wear leather pants and put spikes on everything our armies will be unstoppable. Well, our virtual armies. Real life is a lot harder. We’ll have to deal with the immense logistics of equipping troops with enough spikes to make Kaiser Wilhelm II blush without completely crippling our supply lines. In order to get an appropriate spike to troop ratio, daily rations need to be removed entirely. Food is a lot bulkier that you would expect, and spikes take top priority. To prevent mass starvation, I’ve devised a type of edible spike that can be worn, eaten, and used to impale enemies. A slightly frozen McChicken fashioned into the classic, spiky shape can do some serious damage. Hopefully, the smell of frosty fast food will distract the enemy long enough for my troops to get within impaling range. We didn’t have any room in the supply van for real weapons, so I’m afraid everyone gets a box of frozen McChickens and that’s about it. I plan on starting a new McDonald’s franchise in each city we take to finance our efforts and make the war worthwhile.

That is, if we ever get past our digital planning stages. I haven’t even gotten around to buying the game yet.

Man, The New Bjork Album Is Fantastic

Man, The New Bjork Album Is Fantastic


At least, I think that’s Bjork. I haven’t really been paying all that much attention to the underground Japo-Scandinavian-Austrian-Icelandic yodeling scene. Personally, I much prefer Australian-Tibetan throat singing, but to each their own.

Despite all outward appearances it seems that this is not Bjork and I have made a grievous error. I’d apologize to Bjork and her several fans, but they’re already coming to beat me like a rented mule, so I don’t know if an apology would reach them before they reached me. But the joke’s on them, they’re going to have to get in line if they want a piece of me. My house is already under assault from NASCAR fans, the Bull Moose party, the Nashville Metro PD, and several UN peacekeepers. I’m pretty sure that the fellows from the UN actually want the house next door, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were coming to give me a stern talking to as well.

Even though it’s probably too late, and it’s very likely that even more people are coming to destroy my lawn, urinate in my shrubs, and throw eggs at my mini-van, I’d like to say that I’m sorry. As a token of my sorryness, my sorryosity, and my sorryitude, I’d like to present the third greatest yodeler to ever don a lederhosen:

If you’re still here after all that you’re welcome to take a run at me. I thought blasting yodeling from every digital orifice would’ve been enough to scare everyone off, or at least weaken them somewhat.

The Car Built For Номёя

The Car Built For Номёя

I’m not ashamed to admit that the car in the video goes faster than mine. I’m pretty sure that it gets better gas mileage too, but I can’t tell. They’re using some kind of off-brand metric system to measure everything. Our  cars get three trench-lengths to the soul of one capitalist lackey!  Our tractor can plow four central oblast latrine chutes per pound of suet!

Then again, the used car I’m supposed to be driving got decommissioned like a rusty destroyer in 1946 during the Cash for Clunkers Five-Year Plan extravaganza we had a few years back. All I’ve got it is a rusty bicycle with two under-inflated tires, so it’s not too difficult to go faster than I do, and my gas mileage isn’t really an issue. Mom fills me up with Walmart hot dogs and grilled cheese sandwiches, and I pedal as fast as I can. The EPA,  NHTSA,  and the DOT don’t have a measurement for it yet. They’re still working on polar bears to the ice floe ratios, and cow farts per troposphere tangent. They’ll get around to Schwinn cranks to the pothole eventually, I hope.

All in all, that is one spiffy looking vehicle. It’s definitely got a dash of Soviet Bloc of cheese in the design, and it has angles sharp enough to cut that cheese, too. No matter; it’s something I’d drive if I was given the chance. As long as it can go 300 hectares on a hogshead of kerosene I’d say that it’s one of the best cars to come out of the collapsing Soviet Union. At least he can take solace in the killer sound system and listen to the Leningrad Cowboys on the way to his job at the concrete baby shoe factory.

Good Morning, That’s A Nice Tnetennba

Good Morning, That’s A Nice Tnetennba


I’ll be the first to admit that I’m just a little bit jealous of that fellow’s mad math skills. I was never good at solving mental equations and I’ve only gotten worse over time. Now that I think of it, I don’t know if I even have a basic grasp of mathematics anymore.

People make the mistake of assuming that I’m a complete poindexter because I wear soda-bottle glasses and dress like your senile dad, but I’m am as thick as granite and I have the test scores to prove it. I wear big glasses because I’m blind, so kind of need them to see, and I dress like your dad because I’m so frightfully unhip that I’ve come full circle and hipsters worship my fashion advice. I started off as a jock who was too cool for sports, lost my vision around middle-school, and I’ve been an accidental hipster icon ever since.

I’m not blind because I’ve spent many hours immersed in books that have dulled my vision, or because I spend my days programming super-software to hack into foreign banks, or whatever. My dad doesn’t have very good vision, and neither does my mom, so I’m stuck like this. Now you try explaining that to people who assume you’re a genius because you wear glasses the size of a Palomar lens. Try telling them you’re secretly a mouth-breather. It’s a lot harder than it sounds. At this point I’ve gotten so sick and tired of explaining that I’m not very smart to people that I’ve completely given up. Now I just pretend, which is essentially the same as actually being smart.

In my heart I know I’m not that bright, which has brought me solace and a sense of relief, because I couldn’t live with myself knowing I was a massive NERD.