Power Chords… Er, Power Cords

Power Chords… Er, Power Cords


Let’s watch as our intrepid DIYer buys himself a stairway to heaven with his homemade guitar.

I rather enjoyed his approach. I’m getting somewhat weary of watching videos of bored housewives, whacked on Paxil and two surreptitious before-noon appletinis, making a hideous ten-dollar coffee table out of a twenty-dollar shipping pallet. At least this guy’s finished product costs less than an actual guitar. I’m not sure of the dollar value of the medical attention needed, but I heard they passed some sort of law a few years back and that’s all free now.

And yes, before you tell me, I’m quite aware that a priest, a rabbi, and an imam never went into the bar. Let’s not break down the fourth wall of entertainment, OK? I have a feeling this guy is planning on knocking out the fourth wall of his apartment in a future DIY video anyway.

(Thanks to power duo Gerard at American Digest, and Reader Rob, for sending that one along)

woo

woo

I said, “woo.”

Just woo. I’m not really sure why I said woo. It just seemed like a woo kind of thing. woo-ish.  It was a woo-type event. Not extremely woo-y. But fairly woo-y, surely. Not even upper-case woo. Simply: woo. Let’s not get nuts. But, woo.

The typical Borderline Sociopathic Boy needs woo in his diet. Scientists have been unable thus far to come up with the Minimum Required Daily Allowance of woo required for strong bones — but regularly fractured, I admit — and good teeth, which occasionally need to be picked up off the ground, or the ice, or the striped lawn, of course. Anyway, if you feel that you need more woo in your diet, watch the video twice.

woo

Sports Interviews Have Now Officially Reached The Singularity

Sports Interviews Have Now Officially Reached The Singularity


The Singularity. You know, a superintelligence based on an ever-increasing volume of random inputs, adding up to… well, whoopty! The dude was taking lefts at each of the bases, so that part works. The hair farmer doing the interview didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, so what’s the diff, really?

Of course, brighter men than I have posited that if you give a million monkeys a million typewriters and wait a million years, eventually one of them will type War And Peace by accident. American professional athletes, and their lamprey cousins, American sportswriters and sportscasters, are as close to a million monkeys as we could hope for to test the hypothesis. And a microphone is as good as a typewriter. That right there isn’t the interview equivalent of War And Peace, but it’s comparable to a fairly serviceable comic book, isn’t it?

Keep typing, all you jockish Curious Georges, you’ll get it eventually.

I like A Weapon With The Personal Touch

I like A Weapon With The Personal Touch


I don’t care for those nuclear weapons. They have a hint of “baby with the bathwater.” And chemical weapons are so impersonal. You can’t even hang around and see what you’re doing for very long before you start coughing. Besides, they’re just bug bombs for people. Where’s the sense of fair play in that? Who would sign up to join a military run by the Orkin man? I wouldn’t. And tanks? No whimsy. I need whimsy in my defense procurement.

Now this thing I can get behind. A four-legged robot that throws concrete blocks with his head… er, fifth arm… er, fifth leg –its first arm that goes where his head goes — whatever. Anyway, I want legions of these babies marching over the horizon, instilling fear of unchecked masonry destruction on our enemies. They’ll never run out of ammo, either, as long as our foes have any partially built stripmalls around. It’s genius.