11/15/2010

Today's horoscope for Taurus:  "Today is a 6.  You will first fret over silence, then fret the neck of your guitar, and then read your favorite recently revived blog with high hopes of entertainment, only to have those hopes dashed by a short, trite post that took five minutes or less to write.  You will then go to bed disappointed after hurling various sharp objects."

Stirrings from the crypt

Yes, it's been a long time.  Yes, I suck for abruptly vanishing for months, and forcing you to turn elsewhere for your entertainment.  I'm sorry.  I'm also coming back, bigger and better than ever.  This blog is not only getting revived, it's getting a restructuring that will make it bigger and better than ever.

Shit.  I said that twice.  Guess I'm rusty.

New features may or may not include:

• Music and movie reviews
• Daily horoscopes, written by yours truly
• Fortune cookies, also written by yours truly
• The usual engaging, thought-provoking, and occasionally laugh-inducing essays
• Links to funny pictures and/or YouTube videos (for those days when I got nothin')

I have several other ideas in the works, but I don't want to give away too much.  Okay, that's a lie.  I just don't want to state those ideas, have you look forward to them, then have you angry if I change my mind and decide they're too much hassle.  I will, however, consider any and all ideas submitted to me via comment, email, smoke signal, or rocks with notes taped to them thrown through my window.  (Rocks must also have a minimum of $1,000 taped to them.)

Nevertheless.  This blog WILL return.  It WILL rock your socks.  And if you aren't wearing socks, it will perform a piledriver on you, jab you in the kidneys with a sharp stick, put scratchy and thoroughly uncomfortable thick woolen socks on your feet, and THEN rock your socks.

Consider yourselves warned.

Sleeping death

"As long as my spirit permits / There will be no fucking rest!"  --Dimmu Borgir, "The Heretic Hammer"

I love sleep.  But I hate the necessity of it.

I love it, for it has given me many gifts.  Primarily, the gift of dreams--the voice through which my subconscious may speak freely, without fear of being filibustered by my conscious mind, or drowned out by bothersome sensory input gleaned from an inconvenient world.  Many strange, wonderful, and haunting things have come to me in dreams.  Most were fleeting amusements--some were terrible nightmares--and a precious few have been grasped by my conscious mind, and woven into works wrought in the waking world.

Sleep also grants recuperation and reprieve, both physical and mental.  It allows the body a chance to heal and grow, and affords the mind a rest from the challenges of constant analysis.  Without sleep, one's already tenuous sanity cannot remain intact--a fact that allows "eccentrics" such as myself to justify prolonged periods of slumber.

As though dreams and healing were not gifts enough, there is sleep itself--seductive and delicious.  At 4AM, I cannot justify taxing my brain with the effort necessary to describe it further--but I do not need to.  Like me, anonymous reader, you sleep.  Like me, anonymous reader, you are already intimately familiar with the seductive touch of slumber.

I love sleep.  But I hate the necessity of it.

"An artist is a creature driven by demons," said William Faulkner.  "He doesn't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why."  I am all too familiar with the truth of this statement.  Underneath my calm, slightly deranged exterior seethes a roaring inferno of ambition, spurring me ever forward to achieve--or at least attempt--new things.  Because of this inferno, the concept of resting on one's laurels is alien to me.  I can take pride in the things I have accomplished, but I can never remain content for long.  Always, I must embark on a new project--the fire within will not be appeased until I do.

This ambition, this black fire, I once called both a blessing and a curse.  It has aspects of both, but having matured, I now view at is neither--I view it as a simple fact.  It is a blessing, because it moves me to accomplish great things.  It is the purest, most effective cure for inertia--it is the polar opposite of stagnation.  Without it, I would accomplish very little, and that little by mere chance.  But ambition is the cruelest of taskmasters, and those who do not learn to work with it are condemned to be broken by it.  Before I learned to temper my fire by keeping my feet on the path of progress, I denounced it for a cruel curse, a seed of malice planted in my heart to one day bloom into flames, and burn me out from within.

Now, I embrace that fire.  There are times it roars within my chest, a raging inferno, warming every fiber of my being as I move forward with a ferocity matched by few.  There are times it wanes, its flickering coals hissing as they are doused by buckets of water labeled Setback and Defeat.  But it is a fire that will never be extinguished.  I have a restless nature because of it, and while I at times talk wistfully of adopting a calm, peaceful existence, the truth is that I love the restless nature of the black flame, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

"The sky's the limit", it's been said, but even the most driven of individuals has a limitation that simply cannot be shaken--the need to sleep.  It's no wonder that death has often been compared to sleep--nor is it any wonder that most of those drawing that comparison have it backwards, since the average moron lacks the black flame within to reveal the truth that it is sleep that is comparable to death.

As I write, the hour groweth late, and my body groweth weary.  The fire within, however, is burning bright, and I am wide awake.  It is nights like these where I despise the necessity of sleep.  I conquered my need for naps during the day after the age of two, aside from a few rare instances where serious illness or extreme exhaustion have forced my protesting body to shut down for a while.  But try as I might, I cannot escape my body's demands for its nightly preview of death.

I love sleep.  But I hate the necessity of it.  And that necessity is upon me now.

Farewell, anonymous reader.  Good night...  or, if you prefer, have a pleasant preview of your future demise.

Tyrants incognito

"Remember this," Tyler said.  "The people you're trying to step on, we're everyone you depend on.  We're the people who do your laundry and cook your food and serve your dinner.  We make your bed.  We guard you while you're asleep.  We drive the ambulances.  We direct your call.  We are cooks and taxi drivers and we know everything about you.  We process your insurance claims and credit card charges.  We control every part of your life."  --"Fight Club", by Chuck Palahniuk

I am a blogger with a unique mind, an overactive imagination, a mistrust of government and organized religion, and a paranoid streak.  Therefore, it seems appropriate to write a post that smacks of conspiracy theories, complete with cryptic mumblings about "hidden controllers" and tapioca pudding.  I don't follow politics, which makes it rather difficult to level absurd accusations at public officials.  However, I do live among the middle class, and in my 21 years I have observed that the proverbial "average Joe" can exhibit a surprising amount of control over his fellow proletariats--and can even bring his "superiors" to heel on occasion.  This post is dedicated to those who, by virtue of being gainfully employed, can become dictators if they so choose--ruling not countries, but dependent individuals, with iron fists.

The cable repairman was the man who got me thinking seriously about this absurd subject.  As I watched my grandmother¹ waiting patiently for everything to be taken care of, it struck me that in an indirect way this man, and others like him, could potentially control overly-media-dependent citizens of the United States--IE, the cud-chewing masses who comprise the majority of everyday Americans.  A few people, such as myself, cannot stomach television, and a larger number of people simply cannot afford cable or satellite subscription, but nevertheless, the cable repairman is a formidable power behind the throne in his own right.  Many people are slaves to their televisions, relying on its programming to guide them in many aspects of their lives.  The TV, in turn, is dependent on the cable company, which itself depends on the repairmen who install the cables and fix anything that goes wrong.

Restaurant employees are perfectly positioned to be potential assassins.  A pinch of poison in the parsley, a dash of arsenic in the entree, a vial of cyanide stirred into the soup...  Anybody who abuses their waiter (who is nearly always on good terms with the cook) is a fool of the highest order.  There is a reason kings used to have food tasters to take the first bite of bread, and the first sip of wine.²

I have long been suspicious of morticians.  They are, quite literally, a group of individuals who profit every time someone dies.  Yet, to my knowledge, they are rarely, if ever, suspects in murder investigations.  Why?  Granted, the discovery of corpses on the premises would not be as damning as it would be for a layperson, but you would think police would make at least a cursory check on whoever handles the remains as a matter of standard procedure.  The fact that they are not, combined with the fact that corpses come standard in a funeral home, places the mortician in an excellent position to be a serial murderer, should he so desire.

Baristas control your caffeine.  Without them and their invigorating brews, very little would get done.

Bartenders are providers of alcohol--a commodity many consider to be a necessity.  They are also excellent friends with large, burly fellows known as bouncers.  They have the power to make or break your night.  Don't mess with them.

Teachers and librarians are the keepers of knowledge, shaping our youth and determining our ability to function as a society.  I can attest from personal experience that a good teacher can make an enormous difference in a youth's life--and a bad one can turn students away from learning, encouraging a lifetime of willful ignorance.  Their influence should not be underestimated.

Last but not least--ducks.  Gary Larson warned us, but his warning has gone largely unheeded.  Make no mistake.  Somewhere, somehow, a duck is watching you.

These are but a few of the (potential) tyrants incognito who walk among us, unsuspected, in our day-to-day lives.  If you can think of any I missed, or if you wish to share a story of tyranny you either experienced or perpetrated, email me at HeVilLives@gmail.com, and I will update this post accordingly.  For now, however, it's time for me to sit down to my cable television, eat a nice thermos of tapioca pudding (assuming I can remember the combination), and patch my tinfoil hat.  This Fight Club and Conspiracy Theory inspired post is concluded.

This post will self-destruct in 3.14 seconds.

¹ Lest anyone accuse me of speaking ill of my grandmother, let me say that even in her seventies, she is a hard-working, down to earth woman.  She finds enjoyment in various soap operas, game shows, and other television fare, but she does not derive her personality from it.  Nor does she scorn literature, as so many of the 30-and-under demographic do.

² Still not convinced?  George Orwell had a fair bit to say about his experience in the restaurant business in Paris in his book "Down and Out in Paris and London".  Sanitation standards have changed since those days, but human nature hasn't.

An open letter to employers

"The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing.  If you can fake that, you've got it made."  --Groucho Marx

Dear Employers,

I understand that the economy is in the toilet right now.  I understand that, as an early-twenties male with no college degree and limited job experience, I am a dime-a-dozen worker, at least on paper.   I understand that I am going to have to fill out a great many applications and apply at nearly every place in town before securing even a part-time, minimum wage job.  I understand all of this, and while I'm not thrilled about it, I accept it.

My complaint is in regards to the personality assessments you insist on making applicants fill out on every single application.   The supposed goal is to ensure that you hire the few potentially decent human beings out of the cesspool of applicants--IE, the few who will not, through incompetence or rudeness, drive away the few customers remaining to you in these meager times.  This is an admirable goal, but the flaws in your procedure are so glaring that I can no longer refrain from venting.

First of all, the personality assessment is redundant.  It is the job of the interviewer to size up personality and whether or not the candidate would be an asset or a detriment to the company.   I realize that a computer assessment to weed out people seems more efficient, given the huge number of applicants, but since you're going to have to interview people anyway, I urge you to live up to the responsibility of your position and shoulder the extra work.   You're getting paid for a reason--earn it.

Second of all, what idiot decided that a personality-less computer would be a better judge of a human's personality than a human being endowed with a personality?   Whoever you are, pray to your god that I do not find you, or I will show you an aspect of my personality that you are unlikely to survive with sound mind and body.

Third, the personality assessments really aren't that effective.  Did you know that McDonald's has a personality test?   I'm serious.  The page looks as though the average 14-year-old YouTube commenter wrote and designed the page, complete with spelling and grammar errors.  If that isn't enough, consider Wal-Mart.  I failed Wal-Mart's personality assessment--a former friend of mine, a wife-beating alcoholic with a suspended driver's license and a jail record for repeated DUI offenses, not only passed but was deemed to have management qualities.  Good job, Wal-Mart!

Fourth, anybody can say anything on a personality assessment.  It's called lying.  I've taken to it myself, in the hopes of passing the assessment and getting an interview.

Fifth, half of the questions on the assessments are irrelevant.  "I find it maddening when courts let guilty criminals go free--agree or disagree."   What the hell does that have to do with anything?  So long as I can swing a mop and keep my opinions to myself, it's none of your damn business what kind of outlook I have on life, love, politics, or the O. J. Simpson case.

Sixth: Just because I don't like people doesn't mean I can't work with them, and work well.  Now, I will be the first to admit that I am a bit of a misanthrope.  As I've matured, I've learned to lighten up on the pessimism and accept that most people will not live up to my standards, but I still find it distasteful to interact with large numbers of people.  HOWEVER, I WILL DO SO GLADLY FOR MONEY.  Pay me minimum wage, and I will turn on the charm, and leave customers happy.  Minimum wage employment is three parts drudge to two parts whore--so long as we can go through the motions and fake satisfaction, we don't have to actually like what we're doing.

Seventh: I am a hard worker.  I am the rare (among entry-level jobs, anyway) employee who will work hard, work steadily, get things done, continue working even when the manager isn't looking, and upon completing my tasks, will look for more work to do.  I am that breed that believes very strongly that if I'm on someone else's dime, I'd better earn it.  Personality assessments ask a few cursory questions in a feeble attempt to detect this attitude, but any fool can lie.  Any human interviewer worth his or her salt, however, will recognize this quality if it is present, and will appreciate it.

Eighth: I am reliable.  I show up on time.  I work.  If necessary, I'll put in a few extra minutes off the clock without complaint.  I rarely take sick days (averaging one or two a year) and never take vacation.  I'm the employee who walks in the door and prompts sighs of relief.  "Good--now things'll get taken care of."

Ninth: I am intelligent.  I have common sense.  If I don't know something, I'll ask.  If I make a mistake (which is rare, but does happen), I will own up to it, learn from it, and take whatever steps are necessary to fix it.

If you haven't gotten the drift, I'll summarize: I am a better employee than 90% of the other people applying to you or currently working for you.  The sole saving grace of most of those 90% is their ability to pass the fucking personality assessment.  Look past the judgment of the soulless machine, grant me an interview, give me a week to learn the ins and outs of the job, and in a month's time you will be able to replace two or three of your current employees by putting me on full-time.

--A frustrated applicant, David M. Smith II

A solution for California drivers

"A woman drove me to drink and I didn't even have the decency to thank her."  --W. C. Fields

Anyone who has had the misfortune to drive in the Golden State knows that the average Californian is a lousy, inconsiderate, reckless, and stupid driver. Relatives from out of state mention it without fail.  Natives like myself, who choose to go places by bicycle, dodge death on a daily basis, riding like maniacs because experience has taught us that quick reflexes and a certain daredevil attitude are necessary to survival.  Meanwhile, in this high-speed jungle, drivers get away with all sorts of mayhem, with few repercussions.  Police write plenty of tickets (mostly to generate revenue), but tickets are a mere after-the-fact slap on the wrist, and they don't do the bicyclist spattered all over the sidewalk much good.  I say it's high time we implemented a new system to curb reckless driving, and I have, if you'll pardon the pun, just the ticket.

I have mused a number of times that if drivers were as vulnerable as bicyclists--stripped of the comfort and protection of thousands of pounds of steel, airbags, and air conditioning--they would either learn to pay attention very quickly, or they would perish.  Either way, problem solved.  Since this is not possible to implement until I take over the world, I have had to be content with role-reversal fantasies involving swerving Hummers at pink-faced, panting rednecks and soccer moms frantically pedaling bicycles.  But the other day, after witnessing an example of vehicular stupidity, I recalled a movie called The Fifth Element, which introduces Bruce Willis as a reckless cab driver with a scant few points left on his driver's license.  This concept of points got my wheels turning (if you'll pardon another pun), which led to the brainwave that birthed my magnificent solution.

However, before I unveil the solution, I have to introduce the problem, and all its various components.  The first rule of engagement is to know your enemy, so I will begin with definitions.

DEFINITIONS

You would think that such a diverse state would have a pretty broad spectrum of driving ability, but in all my 21 years here, I've only seen three kinds of drivers: good drivers, average Californian drivers, and the stereotypical Californian drivers who give us all a bad name.

Good drivers are just that--drivers who are competent, sensible, have regard for human life, and obey traffic laws.  Sadly, they are the only minority in California who have yet to reproduce themselves to majority status.  They account for perhaps 3% of traffic, and can rest assured that they are highly unlikely to find themselves caught in the machinations of my devious solution to California's traffic woes.

Stereotypical Californian drivers are technically a minority, but are far more numerous than good drivers.  These are the assholes on whom the stereotype of a terrible driver is based.  They do "California stops"¹, race each other, weave through traffic, drive drunk or high, speed, drive over sidewalks and lawns², and otherwise exhibit a reckless disregard for human life.  Fortunately, many of them favor extremely loud stereo systems and rap music, so whenever the windows shake and the air becomes polluted with noise, sensible people like myself can go "Shit, bassmobile," and prepare to dodge.  Unfortunately, this does not hold true in all cases--not every stereotypical Californian driver bumps rap music, and many average Californian drivers do.³

Average Californian drivers, as you've probably guessed, are those in between the two extremes.  They account for about 88% of traffic on the road, and are characterized by their lack of both recklessness (which keeps them from being stereotypical Californian drivers) and intelligence (which keeps them out of the good driver category).  They typically are more of a nuisance than a threat to others on the road, but one must keep an eye on them, as their incompetence occasionally proves deadly.

A SEXIST ASIDE

As long as I'm lumping people into arbitrary categories in order to pick on them criticize them more efficiently, I might as well answer the ever-popular question of whether men or women are worse drivers.  Keeping in mind that my answers are based solely on my own experiences, and that there are exceptions to each case, I will list the most commonly witnessed faults of each gender behind the wheel.  This is only what I've spotted with my own two peepers--it's not like I bothered to go out and conduct a study.  From what I've seen, the breakdown by gender goes something like this:

Men are far more likely to engage in reckless behavior--speeding, street racing, discharging firearms from a moving vehicle, etc.  However, they are also more likely to be paying attention to what they're doing, and are more likely to be at least somewhat skilled at handling their vehicles.

Women are far more dangerous than men, because they are less likely to pay attention to what the fuck they're doing.  A Californian woman behind the wheel is either a very good or a very bad thing, particularly when that wheel belongs to a truck or other large vehicle.  I have had a number of close calls over the years, and the hairiest ones all involved vehicles driven by women--not women speeding, or weaving through traffic, or driving drunk, but women who weren't paying attention.

To recap: Men are more likely to do something stupid, but women are more likely to kill you.  Adding insult to injury, they won't even kill you on purpose.  Now that I've pissed off the female readers of my blog, I might as well present my solution to California's driving ills.

SOLVING THE PROBLEM OF STUPID DRIVERS

The DMV Driver's Handbook lists some traffic offenses that can result in "points" being deducted from your license.  Lose enough points, and you lose your license.  Sounds reasonable, right?  Probably because it is--but many people aren't reasonable.  In the real world, people who rack up enough offenses to get their license taken away often continue driving without a license, until they're finally stopped by surer means, such as jail time or having their car confiscated.

Instead of a system of taking away points, and eventually taking away licenses, I propose the opposite.  I propose we give traffic offenders points, and when they accrue a certain number of points, we give them a penalty they'll never forget.  My system is as follows:

• Minor traffic violations are worth 1-4 SDP (Stupid Driver Points).  Since I can't be bothered to go through the traffic code line by line, I'll let law enforcement do it.
• Speeding is worth x SDP, where x equals the number of miles per hour over the speed limit you were driving.  (The points are assigned based on the highest speed the police clocked you at on a radar gun.)  Racing tacks on another 1-5 SDP, depending on how busy the street is.
• Driving drunk is worth 10 SDP for each point over the legal limit, as determined by a breathalyzer.  If you are intoxicated by some other substance, you get 15 SDP.  (These penalties stack, so someone driving drunk and high would get 25 SDP.)
• Texting, doing makeup, or doing any other activity that results in you taking your eyes off of the road while the vehicle is in motion is worth 10 SDP, as well as confiscation of the offending device, if applicable.  (Kiss that iPhone or makeup kit goodbye.)
• Discharging a firearm from a moving vehicle (unless you are an active member of law enforcement or the armed forces) carries a penalty of 10 SDP.  If you actually hit what you were aiming at, the penalty is lowered to 8 SDP.

At any point, you may turn yourself in to the police and serve jail time--your sentence will be a week for each Stupid Driver Point, and upon being released you will have 0 SDP.  The catch is, you have to serve the whole sentence--you can't decide to serve just a few weeks to clear a few points.  If you don't feel like going to jail, one SDP will be removed from your license each year, though you cannot lower your SDP below 0.

Now for the fun part.  If you have 50 Stupid Driver Points on your license, a high-priority warrant will be issued for your arrest.  Upon being captured, you will be forced to undergo Stupid Driver Rehabilitation, which consists of a nationally televised Gladiator-style demolition derby.  You and another 50+ Point idiot will face off in a broken glass littered arena, each of you driving your own car (or an impound, if yours is out of commission) and carrying 1d4 five-gallon tanks of propane in the trunk (the kind you use for barbecues).⁴  In the event that both cars become disabled, but both drivers are still alive, you will be provided with midieval weaponry, and the competition will continue.  Survivors (if any) will have 50 SDP removed from their license, and will be responsible for their own medical bills.

California drivers, not to mention the gene pool, will benefit from this law over time, as stupid drivers are gradually killed off.  The state of California will reap a huge profit by televising the Stupid Driver Rehabilitation events.  Cocky kids in expensive cars or trucks bought by mommy and daddy will either think twice before putting the pedal to the metal, or will deliberately rack up SDP to test their mettle with Rehabilitation--either way, the problem will be resolved.  The only real issue I can see is that such a program would inevitably create a breed of "super-drivers"--those reckless enough to accrue lots of Stupid Driver Points, but skilled enough to survive the Rehabilitation.  Most likely, though, these super-drivers would become celebrities in their own right (a la Kable), and would either settle down after raking in a few millions in endorsements and merchandise, or continue to participate in Rehabilitation until their luck ran out.

Either way, California's roads would be a lot safer.  And less crowded.

¹ A "California stop" is when someone does not come to a complete stop at either a stop sign or a red light.  In and of itself, it's not a big deal--the problem is that they tend to punch the gas pedal after slowing without looking to see what might be in their path.

² I'm not kidding.  I've seen this.  More than once.

³ On extremely rare occasions, good drivers will blare rap music as well.  I suspect this serves as a form of camouflage, which keeps good drivers safe in stereotypical Californian driver territory.

⁴ By law in California, you can't transport more than three propane tanks at one time in an ordinary car--something about it being a hazard if you crash.  I personally am of the opinion that if you crash with a bunch of propane in the trunk, you're in trouble whether it's one tank or six.  Also, for those who aren't nerds, 1d4 means that the number of tanks is determined by rolling a four-sided die.

Sentences about seasons

"There are many in this old world of ours who hold that things break about even for all of us.  I have observed for example that we all get the same amount of ice.  The rich get it in the summertime and the poor get it in the winter."  --Bat Masterson

SPRING

I hate spring.

I hate the unpredictable weather.  I hate the way it rains, then two days later hikes the temperature forty or fifty degrees and sweats your unsuspecting system.  I hate wearing shorts¹ and a tee-shirt and getting rained on.  Conversely, I hate bundling up and getting roasted.  I hate biking anywhere at night during the spring, because it's too hot to wear a coat or hoodie and too cold to go without one.

I hate pollen--wretched plant sex that wreaks havoc on my large and sensitive nostrils.  I hate sneezing half a dozen times, blowing my nose, and sneezing half a dozen more times, only to have to blow my nose again.  I hate the way I sneezed just now, just thinking about it.  I hate that dry, dusty feeling in my throat every time I mow the lawn, as the teasing April wind² sprinkles my mouth with particles of shorn grass and dirt--karma choking me with the corpses of my victims, like a Nazi coughing as he inhales the ashes of a crematory oven.

I hate the transitional nature of spring.  I hate knowing that in a few scant months, the sun will stop teasing and will begin brutalizing, doing its utmost to destroy me with temperatures far higher than my winter-born body can comfortably withstand.  I hate knowing that the months ahead will be soaked in sweat, with my afternoons spent huddled in my air-conditioned lair, and my evenings...

SUMMER

"Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it."  --Russell Baker

As much as I hate summer, even I can't complain about summer evenings.  They are the saving graces of an otherwise intolerable season.  Evenings spent barbecuing, listening to music and watching the flames rise and fall as the sun sets in the background.  Evenings spent killing time in parks after dark, because my friends and I are bored and broke and have nothing better to do.  Evenings spent sitting on the back porch, drinking beer and maybe reading a good book, listening to the neighborhood kids scream with delight and the neighbors' dogs bark good-naturedly.  Evenings that remind me what it means to be alive, even as they gradually grow colder, until they give way to autumn.

AUTUMN

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower."  --Albert Camus

Autumn...  a time of reflection.  A time of bittersweet beauty, as the flower of youth withers and the frost of ages comes creeping forth, like the shadows of the clouds that will soon engulf the land.  A time of melancholy, of Poe-tic pining.  A time that, like a marriage to a cancerous maiden, we must cherish while it lasts, for it will be gone too soon, into the cold and implacable maw of winter.

WINTER

"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...  It's about learning to dance in the rain."  --Robin Woodgate

Winter--my favorite season.  The season in which I was born, in which I will always truly belong.  A season of death, of rain, and of darkness, but also of joy, and peace.  A season that, through its harshness, reminds us of our strength.  A season laden with holidays, including the highest holiday of all, at least for me--my own birthday.  A season that, alas, gives way all too soon to spring.

SPRING

Dammit.  I hate spring.

¹ I'm speaking metaphorically, of course--those who know me know I never wear shorts.

² Yes, I'm aware it's May as I write this.  Tell it to Mother Nature.

ESSAY: The Tenth Hour

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Unlike my previous posts, this is an essay written in the style of a narrative.  I worked one summer as an attendant at a gas station nine miles from where I lived, and every day I would commute on a bicycle.  It took me about an hour to get there, and after an eight hour shift, the ride home--the tenth hour of my day--was grueling.  I wrote this essay originally for a college English course, and while it was not received well by my professor or my peer reviewers (largely due to the second-person narration), some family members thought it was well-written enough that they asked me for permission to let friends read an old draft lying around my mom's house.  I decided I might as well post it here, with a few revisions, for friends and strangers alike to read.

THE TENTH HOUR

The ride home is a race.  Winning this race will earn you no trophy, no prize, nor any recognition.  There is no carrot dangling before you, only a stick above you.  Victory is not possible--to survive, to live to ride another day, is the only reward.  For in this race, you are the sole contestant, battling not other riders, but the perils of the road and the limits of your own endurance.  Can you make it home before your strength gives out?  You made this ride once already, and have toiled beneath the sun for eight hours since.  You are exhausted, half dehydrated, your clothes soaked with sweat--and you are still at the starting line.

As you sign your time card and step outside, walking your bicycle, the heat hits you all at once, the way hot air rushes to greet you when you open the door of an oven.  You do not recoil--you're used to the heat, and you're too damn tired anyway.  You mount your bike, adjust your backpack, and tuck the loops of shoelace into your boots, to prevent them from winding around the pedals while you ride.  A plastic soft drink cup full of ice water is in your right hand--if you drop it, as you have in races past, your chances of survival diminish.  Steeling yourself and checking for traffic, you begin pedaling.  The race has begun.

As you head down Laguna Boulevard, the Apple company's headquarters is to your left, an enormous compound of buildings taking up an entire block--a veritable nerd fortress.  There are several different driveways leading to the street from the various parking lots--some gated off, some open.  As always, there are at least half a dozen Apple employees loitering in the shade of trees planted by the sidewalk, some smoking and conversing, others reading or listening to music by themselves.  Though you can't see the devices their headphones are connected to, you amuse yourself with the notion that perhaps one of these solitary employees, fed up with Apple's less-than-perfect products, has eschewed the iPod in favor of Microsoft's Zune--a small way of sticking it to the man who founded his company on the principle of sticking it to the man.

Now you're at a crosswalk.  The light is red, but you don't even slow down--on main roads like Laguna, most of the minor roads that cross it have very little traffic, meaning that nine times out of ten you can simply keep pedaling, regardless of what color the light happens to be at the moment.  The light turns green as you reach the other side, leaving the Apple complex behind.  You take a long sip of water.  The cup was cold in your hand only five minutes ago, but already the ice has shrank by a third.

To your left now is a barren tract of land.  You have observed heavy earth-moving machines, and surmised that the land is being developed, but if so, it will be a long time before any buildings appear, from the looks of things.  You cross another street, again paying no heed to the light, and take another long sip of water.  Now there are more buildings to your left--a church, a shop, and other generic buildings that are forgotten the instant you pass them.  Another sip of water, and before you know it, you have reached the first overpass.  This is the single most physically strenuous part of your journey.

As with most overpasses, some nitwit in charge of such decisions thought it would be an excellent idea to put a cross street in the middle of the hill.  If traffic is with you, this does not matter, but if the light is against you, you must stop.  Unlike the seldom-used side streets, the cross street here carries plenty of traffic.  Today, as most days, the light is against you.  You curse and stop, gripping the front brake with your left hand and staring into traffic with eyes weary from the sun.  Across the street from you is an electronic billboard proclaiming the time and temperature, no doubt to mock you--5:10PM and 106 degrees.  Briefly, you wonder what the weather's like in Antarctica this time of year and begin a monologue of profanity against the nitwit who approved the cross street, more out of weary boredom than malice.  You stop mid-curse as you notice a sign-waver standing to your left: a black kid with a content expression, waving his sign in time to whatever music his headphones are injecting into his skull.  You wonder idly whether he has an iPod or a Zune as the light finally turns green, and you begin to pedal.

The slope of this overpass is steep and long.  Even when the light is in your favor and you hit the overpass at a full-speed charge, momentum will only get you a third of the way up the hill before gravity slows you to a bitter crawl.  Today, having been forced to stop prematurely, you must fight for every yard.  Sometimes standing up and pedaling helps, but it's fiendishly difficult to do so with a flimsy drink cup in one hand, so you resort to the pedal-and-push method: you pedal with your left foot until the pedal is close to the ground, then push against the ground with your left foot as you pedal with your right.  You repeat this, yard by bitter yard, up the overpass, your breathing harsh, but as deep as you can manage through the burning in your chest.  Experience has taught you that shallow breaths simply won't give you enough power to climb this hill.

As you finally near the top, you gaze to your left, careful not to let your steering follow your line of sight down the hill to a fatal end.  The view is not magnificent, but it's certainly better than the concrete in front of you, and pretty enough to merit a look.  Far left, back the way you came, you see white flat roof after white flat roof, in a sea of orderly rows--the roofs of units in a distant storage center.  Next, there is a body of water--large and artificial and inviting.  Your right brain briefly imagines jumping in to cool down, but your left brain reminds you that such a shock to your system could be fatal, so you move on.  A little further on, there is a railroad track, possibly abandoned--it looks run down, and you have never seen or even heard a train here.  Beyond the track is a stone wall, covered with graffiti, and a residential area.  Now you are atop the overpass, long since winded and rolling along now at a crawl.  You clumsily wipe the sweat pouring down your face with an already sodden shirt sleeve and admire the view as you catch your breath.  As you reach the other side, you stop and look down at the next cross street--a busy one--and the light governing it.  Red.  Good--it'll change by the time you reach it.  You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what is essentially a suicide dive, and start pedaling again, hard.

You are going downhill now, and you pick up speed quickly.  You look to your left as long as you dare, at those nice houses down there, again careful not to let your steering follow your sight line.  The first two houses have huge backyards, wild and overgrown for the most part.  The first one has an old, rusted out car in the backyard, and you imagine how neat it would be to live there as a kid, to take your best friend out there and sit in the car during the cool summer twilight, pretending to drive, telling each other stories and jokes and secrets the way kids do.  The second backyard is more neatly kept, and has a large, paved concrete basketball court, hoops and all.  Though it's difficult to tell from this height, it appears to be full size, and yet it takes up only a third of the yard.  Must be nice, you think, and return your gaze to what's in front of you, because now you have picked up a lot of speed.  You are plummeting downhill towards that red light, your wheels moving too fast now for pedaling to be much use.  You are riding on the sidewalk, because bike lanes are prone to being littered with rocks and odd road debris, and to hit a bump would likely be fatal at this speed.

You are getting awfully close to that red light.  Change, dammit! you think, getting a bit nervous.  The light does change--to let left-turn traffic through.  Alarmed, you size up the situation in less than a second.  You're moving too fast to stop.  Swerving left isn't an option; the turn is simply too sharp, and blind to boot--you'll likely as not smash into a waiting car.  As always, the left-turn traffic is sluggish, slow to react to the light change.  Kamikaze it is, you think, squaring your shoulders, lowering your head, and pedaling frantically.  You zoom out into the street and make it safely to the other side, just before the left-turn traffic roars into the point in space you occupied a mere second ago.  Heart racing, you pedal the short distance to Franklin Road, cross, and turn left, gasping thanks to whatever odd chance decided to let you live today.

Now you are on Franklin, the second leg of your journey.  Though it is only half the length of the third and final leg of the race, it feels like the longest.  The scenery is monotonous--trees, sidewalks, grass, houses, all repeating in random sequences as you pass over a dozen small side streets, several of which have Laguna in their names, to trick the unwary into thinking they have found the Laguna Boulevard.  The trick to this stretch is to just keep pedaling, sipping water now and then.  The ice in your cup has nearly disappeared, and the heat is taking its toll on you.  You wipe sweat from your face occasionally, and think your own thoughts, keeping your eyes peeled for debris in the bike lane (this side of Franklin is bad about that sort of thing) and for traffic from the side streets--few are busy, but drivers in the area are reckless.  Like the Laguna leg, the distance is just a little over two miles, but the repetitive terrain makes it feel much longer.

By the time you turn onto Cosumnes to begin the third leg of the race, your water cup is nearly empty, the ice long since melted.  This part of the road is quite nice, now that they have finished the construction on it.  Perhaps half a mile down, the road seems to ripple.  Your right brain whispers fearfully that the heat is causing a mirage, but your left brain reminds you that the ripple is just the result of a slight rise in the ground that the construction workers apparently couldn't be bothered to level.  No doubt they worked for the nitwit who approved cross roads in the middle of overpasses.  You ignore the ripple and keep pedaling, amused to notice that you are now so tired that you actually feel the negligible amount of extra effort required by the rise.  No matter.  The traffic light ahead is green, and will remain so for quite a while.  You cross easily, and begin the second deadliest stretch of your journey.

Cosumnes River College is directly to your right.  It is a beautiful campus, but you can't afford to sightsee--you're too busy wondering if you're going to die today.  The traffic is approaching from behind, and cars rush by a mere foot to your left.  To your right are large decorative rocks and a forbidding iron fence--if you swerve right to avoid errant traffic, you will be severely injured.  There is no choice but to pedal fast and hope for the best.

A few harrowing minutes later, you arrive alive at the traffic light on the other side of the campus.  True to form, the light is red.  You drink the last sip of water, grimace as it raises your body temperature another degree, and take advantage of the stop to put the cup in your backpack, flexing your stiff right hand, which has been molded into the shape of the cup for the last half hour.  Your muscles feel weak, but you ignore it and cross the street as the light turns.  You reach a small island, which splits off two lanes from the cross street and is, in your opinion, a criminally stupid and deadly way to route traffic.  The nitwit strikes again, you think.  You eyeball the cars and trucks full of college students racing home, daring them to hit you, and cross, taking advantage of the main street traffic that forces them to pause for a few moments.  There is a separate crossing signal on the island that would be marginally safer, but you cannot afford the time to use it.  This is a race between your own endurance and the unforgiving sun, which drains the life from you each minute you spend beneath it.  Your water is gone, you still have three miles to go, and you are starting to feel sick and lightheaded from ten hours of merciless heat.  Every second in the sun is a second closer to heat stroke and, in this murderous traffic, death.

The ground begins to slope uphill again as you climb up the second overpass on your journey--the one that turns Cosumnes into Calvine.  This overpass, while almost as steep as its cousin on Laguna, is not nearly as long, and it is much easier to gain the top.  Without pausing to rest, you cross the off-ramp, smiling as you begin to rocket downhill.  The light is with you this time, negating most of the danger from the less busy cross street midway down.  You coast comfortably downhill until you reach another island, where you stop and press the button.  There's no real need to push it--you know this corner well enough to simply follow the traffic lights--but you might as well, since the light is red and you're going to be here for a minute anyway.  The light soon turns green, and you proceed down Calvine.

Now you are on the home stretch--two and a half miles of easy terrain, well-paved and with few cross streets.  You pass a McDonald's, a Starbucks, a field, a school.  You cross a street without bothering to wait for green, and now you're passing a Bodhi temple and a Kohl's.  Turn right onto Elk Grove Florin, right again into the residential neighborhood, and three half-delerious minutes later you're home, drenched in sweat, half dead from heat, dehydration and exhaustion, but wearing a faint smile.  Once again, you have ran the race, and survived.

As you sit at home that night, the day's trip seems small, unimportant.  That grueling nine miles beneath the sun, so vivid and daunting at the time, merits no more than a brief thought now that you are sitting comfortably in your air-conditioned home, freshly showered, dressed in clean clothes, and drinking a bottle of cold water.  Like many things in life, something that seemed huge and impossible at the time is rendered small and unimportant by time and perspective.  Calm and content, you go to bed.  You are tired, and you have another long day ahead of you.  Tomorrow, you will race again.

Satanism for Dummies, and other oxymorons

"If there are no stupid questions, then what kind of questions do stupid people ask?  Do they get smart just in time to ask questions?"  --Scott Adams

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is going to be my last post dealing with religion for a while.  The only reason I'm posting this is because I've attempted to write this three times, and now that I've finally finished the damned thing in a manner I can accept as satisfactory, it would be pretty stupid not to post it.  But I definitely want to take the blog in a direction that doesn't deal with Satanism or religion every other post.

I have no problem with Christians.  Honestly, I don't.  They are, by and large, nice enough people who shower daily, pay their taxes, and happen to believe in a deity I have seen no convincing evidence of.  They are generally polite, law-abiding, and lacking in guile.

I do have a problem with stupid people.  Stupid people cause all sorts of trouble, for themselves and for everyone else.  They litter, they induce headaches in their intellectual superiors, and they reproduce far too frequently for my liking.  They also talk on their cell phones while driving.

Unfortunately, a fair number of these stupid people happen to be Christian.  Whether that's because Christians make up a large portion of the population...

...or because they tend to believe in a religious notion of creationism despite contradictory scientific evidence...

...I really couldn't say.

Funny (and decidedly biased) pictures aside, though, I do have one major bone to pick with some Christians who are curious about Satanism.  I have a number of Christian friends and family members, and I love them to death, even if some of them secretly wonder whether or not I recite prayers backwards, slaughter cats and beavers, and howl at the moon.  (Come to think of it, my non-Christian friends probably wonder that, too.)  I understand that they are curious about my beliefs, or lack thereof, and some of them are more than a little alarmed at my religious affiliation thanks to the lies their pastors feed them.  That's fine--I have no problem clearing up misconceptions.  But I am tired of attempting to have an intelligent religious discussion* with people who approach me from a position of willful ignorance--AKA, stupidity.

My chief complaint is that more than one inquisitor has voiced a refusal to read The Satanic Bible, which outlines the philosophy of Satanism quite succinctly.  If you don't want to read it, that's fine--but don't pester me with questions if you're unwilling to do your homework.  I don't mind clearing up misconceptions, and I certainly don't mind answering any clarifying questions a reader of The Satanic Bible may have about what he or she has read, but don't ask me questions if you don't truly want to learn.

Now that my rant is concluded, I will get to the informative part of this post.  Satanism is not a religion for dummies--in fact, Stupidity is our cardinal sin--but I will give a bare-bones outline of the Satanic Bible, in the hopes of answering some of the more common questions.  (This also will allow me to refer people with questions to this post, which will hopefully save me some time and repetition.)  Readers are asked to keep in mind that other people may have slightly different interpretations of certain points--however, the rules and restrictions are not open to interpretation.

THE SKELETON OF THE SATANIC BIBLE

The Nine Satanic Statements, which can be viewed here.

(FIRE) -- The Book of Satan -- The Infernal Diatribe

The Book of Satan is a brief diatribe, formatted in a style reminiscent of the Holy Bible, and told from the point of view of a literal Satan.  Satanism does NOT believe in a literal entity known as Satan--this section of The Satanic Bible is metaphorical.  It blasts the tenets of Christianity as outdated drivel formulated to enslave mankind, and cautions against blindly accepting dogma as truth.

(AIR) -- The Book of Lucifer -- The Enlightenment

The Book of Lucifer is the heart of The Satanic Bible.  It is a series of essays outlining the philosophy of Satanism.  I will not summarize every essay or attempt to explain every facet of our religion here--Anton LaVey did a superb job of that forty years ago.  I will merely list a few salient points that will answer some of the more common questions I have been asked.  The names of the essays will be cited for reference.

• Satanists do not pray, to the Devil or to anyone else.  (Wanted!: God--Dead or Alive)
• If we commit a wrong (something we truly regret), we do not ask for forgiveness, save perhaps from those we've wronged.  Instead, we take care to learn from our error, so as not to repeat it.  (Wanted!: God--Dead or Alive)
• The spiritual is a myth.  Gods are inventions of human minds.  (The God You Save May be Yourself)
• Man needs dogma and ritual.  Religions typically fill this need through rituals and dogma concerning external deities.  The Satanist feels that, since all deities are creations of man anyway, if we are going to ritualize, we ought to do so in the name of a god we have created in our own image and in accordance with our own emotional needs.  (The God You Save May be Yourself)
• Satanism does not call itself Humanism or Atheism because, unlike Humanism or Atheism, Satanism has dogma, which serves the emotional needs of Satanists.  (Some Evidence of a New Satanic Age)
• Satanists do not sell their souls or call upon demons.  (Hell, the Devil, and How to Sell Your Soul)
• Satanists do not attempt to love everybody.  Nor do they deny that they are capable of feeling hatred.  (Love and Hate)
• Rape, pedophilia, and bestiality are all strictly forbidden.  No exceptions--no loopholes.  (Satanic Sex)
• If it occurs between two (or more) consenting adults, who are willing to accept any consequences, then sexual activity is the business of no one save those involved.  (Satanic Sex)
• Satanists indulge themselves in their desires, but do not allow those desires to rule them--nor do they indulge at the expense of their own well-being.  (Indulgence...  NOT Compulsion)
• Satanists do not sacrifice humans or animals.  (On the Choice of a Human Sacrifice)
• Satanists are not allowed to harm animals^ or children.  (On the Choice of a Human Sacrifice)
• When a Satanist throws a curse, he or she symbolically destroys the victim, but does not physically harm anyone.  (On the Choice of a Human Sacrifice)
• Satanists do not believe in an afterlife or in reincarnation.  (Life After Death Through Fulfillment of the Ego)
• Satanism frowns upon suicide, except in cases of extreme suffering due to a terminal illness with no hope of recovery.  (Life After Death Through Fulfillment of the Ego)
• The spring equinox (Walpurgisnacht) and the fall equinox (Halloween) are considered Satanic holidays, though celebration is not required.  The highest holiday is the date of one's own birth.  (Religious Holidays)
• Not every Satanic ceremony is a Black Mass--in fact, Black Masses are the rare exception rather than the rule, and do not conform to the notions of human sacrifice and sexual debauchery perpetuated by Christian hysterics of old.  (The Black Mass)

Please note that these are merely a handful of points and not a definitive summary of Satanism.  If you really want to know, read the fucking book!

(EARTH) -- The Book of Belial -- The Mastery of the Earth

The book of Belial is a series of essays outlining the principles of Satanic magic.  I will not go into them here--partly because any attempts on my part to summarize would be disasters, and partly because those with the ability to actually apply these principles will find it worthwhile to spend the money to buy and read The Satanic Bible.  I will remind the reader that, while we do call upon Satan and the various Gods of Hell during Greater Magical ritual, we do not actually believe that these things exist.  The purpose of Greater Magic is to purge harmful emotions (anger, unrequited lust, self-pity)--disbelief in the literal existence of Satan, Hell, and the supernatural are temporarily set aside during the ritual.

(WATER) -- The Book of Leviathan -- The Raging Sea

The Book of Leviathan consists primarily of incantations to be recited during Greater Magical ritual.

The Satanic Bible concludes with the words "YANKEE ROSE".

Nobody except Anton LaVey knows why, or if they do, they're not talking.

Further reading:

• The Satanic Bible.  Actually, this is primary reading, but I figured I'd take the opportunity to mention it again.
• The official Church of Satan web site: www.churchofsatan.com
• The Devil's Notebook and Satan Speaks!, which are both collections of essays by Anton LaVey.
• The Satanic Scriptures, by Peter H. Gilmore, the current High Priest of the Church of Satan.

EPILOGUE

Now that I have finally succeeded in writing this, months after I originally tried, I say it's high time that Satanism disappears for awhile as a topic of this blog.  Satan this, Christians that, according to Anton LaVey, Greater Magical ritualization, Holy Bible...  BAH!  Enough already!  Tomorrow I will be posting a revised version of an essay I wrote for English class that has nothing to do with any religion.  It was not well-received by my classmates or my professor, but family members seem to think it's pretty good, so I'll post it and let you decide for yourself.  Topic-wise, it's a gripping epic about something mundane and trivial--writing at its best.

HAIL CHEEZ-ITS!!!

* I know, I know...  "intelligent religious discussion" is an oxymoron.

^ A Satanist is allowed to kill an animal in self-defense or for food.  Torturing and mutilating animals (or children) is not allowed.

Malice and mallards

"I have a most peaceable disposition. My desires are for a modest hut, a thatched roof, a good bed, good food, very fresh milk and butter, flowers in front of my window and a few pretty trees by my door. And should the good Lord wish to make me really happy, he will allow me the pleasure of seeing about six or seven of my enemies hanged upon those trees."  --Heinrich Heine

One thing I find pleasure in is being challenged to a battle of wits by someone of obviously inferior intelligence.  I liken them to someone challenging Zorro to a duel while brandishing a pair of safety scissors.  Those who are fortunate (?) enough to know me personally know that while I am a skilled writer, I am a terrible speaker.  My speech is broken and punctuated by frequent pauses, "um"s, "like"s, and curses.  But even my clumsy tongue is more than enough to dispatch many of the imbeciles around me, thanks to a sharp mind gleefully telling it which barbs to hurl at my unsuspecting antagonists.

I am the sort of fellow who can deliver an insult in such a way that the recipient has no choice but to laugh, even as he feels the sting of a remark that hit home.  I can deliver the sleeper--the insult that they have to puzzle over, giving me time to walk away--and smile as I hear the indignant "Hey!" behind me when they figure it out.  And like any member of my generation, I can deliver the standard barrage of curse words and creative comparisons between an opponent's phallus and various small objects, but I prefer not to.  Fighting fire with fire quickly grows tiresome.  This blog is about a favored tactic when engaged in hostile dialogues with idiots.

DISCLAIMER: Do not attempt the following unless you are quick-witted and adept at thinking on your feet.  Shooting your mouth off to people bigger, stronger, or faster than you, or in a position of power over you, is not advised.  The author is not responsible for any consequences (embarrassment, injuries, etc.) that may arise from the use or misuse of the contents of this post.

My favorite insult is one I call the "WTF Bomb".  It is the statement that is so utterly devoid of context, so strange and vaguely depraved, that the argument stops dead in its tracks as the opponent blinks and gapes, trying to comprehend the bizarre, barbed apparition that just struck him from left field.  A well-timed WTF Bomb is sufficient to kill the argument, and while the masses may not consider that a "win", I disagree.  If someone is annoying me by insulting me, and I reply with something that shuts them up, I have accomplished my goal.

The best WTF Bombs are spontaneously generated in the heat of battle--or, more accurately, in the tepid tedium of a contest between wily and witless--and are carefully formulated to be as cryptic and irrelevant as possible.  I have used them a number of times.  The reader is advised that the examples I present here are not battle-tested specimens, and are presented here merely as demonstrations:

• "Gargle squirrels!"
• "Why do you insist on masturbating with mallards?"
• "...and I saw the lizard leap out of his pocket as his hamburger exploded."*

People find the WTF Bomb confusing for two reasons.  First, they have little or nothing to do with the argument, thus forcing them to expend precious brainpower trying to figure out how squirrels follow whatever unimaginative expletive they just threw at you.  Second, they have to tax their overheating brain further to try to figure out if what you've said is even an insult--and if so, how it is insulting.  The average person, after several seconds of confusion, will generally get frustrated and ask a question beginning with the words "What the fuck" (hence the name).  The proper response is to say "You figure it out" and walk away, leaving the simpleton staring after you with an expression of confusion etched on his face for the next ten minutes.  Problem solved.

The WTF Bomb is most useful against half-wits, but even those blessed with quick minds will usually be caught off guard, and will be a trifle slow to parry--the first time.  They will quickly catch on, however, and will use the illogical nature of the WTF Bomb against you, so repeating this tactic is unwise--use it as a brief reprieve to clear the air and launch a different line of attack.  Better yet, don't use it at all--the WTF Bomb is not meant for use in an intelligent argument.

Some people are stupid, but are endowed with more wile than the average fool.  Such people are dangerous to employ the WTF Bomb against, because they will suspect that it is a red herring, and will relentlessly press you for an explanation of your statement if you let them.  Do not concede that there is no explanation--concede that fact, and you concede the argument.  Instead, take a "house of cards" approach.  Quickly follow the WTF Bomb with more nonsense statements that are seemingly related, giving your opponent the impression that there is a logic that he isn't quite grasping--then, when the "house of cards" collapses (IE, the holes in your logic become too large to continue bullshitting), act as though you laid out the point perfectly clearly and he simply failed to grasp it.  By this point, he should shake his head and walk away.  If not, lob another WTF Bomb, and another, until he gets the point that arguing with you will be fruitless.

It is at this point that I remind the reader that the intent of the WTF Bomb is not to "win" face-offs according to conventional standards.  If you wish to exchange insults with imbeciles, this post will not help you in the slightest.  As you should have discerned by now, the WTF Bomb is a tool to end pointless arguments.  You can, of course, simply walk away, and leave the fool crowing that he has bested you, but I much prefer leaving those who insult me stewing in their own confusion, with the vague impression that they have been had.

For those who are interested in exchanging insults, I recommend the following:

• The article "Kiss My Satanic Ass!  A Guide to the Science of Insulting", by Blackjack.  This article can be found in issue #16 of The Black Flame.
• "Wicked Words: A Treasury of Curses, Insults, Put-Downs, and Other Formerly Unprintable Terms from Anglo-Saxon Times to the Present", by Hugh Rawson.

For those interested in mallards, I recommend this fellow.

HAIL GUARD DUCK!!!

* This gem appeared in the comic strip Beetle Bailey, drawn by Mort, Greg & Brian Walker.  It was such a beautiful example of a preventative WTF Bomb that I had to update this post to include it.  The comic strip appeared in the Sacramento Bee on Monday, May 10, 2010.

Four cents for the collection plate

"Gods are fragile things; they may be killed by a whiff of science or a dose of common sense."  --Chapman Cohen

For the purposes of this post, I will assume that there is a literal God, a literal Devil, and a literal Heaven and Hell.  As a Satanist, I do not believe any of those things exist--I am temporarily setting aside my disbelief for the purpose of sharing some of the trains of thought and logic that contributed to my turning away from Christianity.

With that out of the way, it's time to throw the first two cents into the collection plate.

AN ANCIENT PHILOSOPHER VS.THE MODERN IDEAL OF GOD

I recently came across a statement by the Greek philosopher Epicurus that neatly disposes of the modern Christian ideal of God.  That statement jibes very nicely with my own attitude, which is how this post was born.  First, however, I would like to clarify what I mean by "the modern Christian ideal of God".

As Anton LaVey pointed out in the Satanic Bible, "God" means something different to each person.  NOT every Christian, or even the majority of Christians, will agree with the notion of God I am presenting here.  What I am describing is the image of God that I have seen touted by believers the most often--the ideal of God that Christianity seems to want to sell to the world, despite the fact that their own Bible contradicts it.  That notion of God has the following basic tenets:

• God is a literal, sentient entity.
• God is all-powerful.
• God is all-knowing.  (The Holy Bible disagrees.)¹
• God is entirely good.* (The Holy Bible provides ample evidence to the contrary.)²

* As Anton LaVey also pointed out in the Satanic Bible, good and evil are relative terms, defined by the individual according to what they do and do not like.  For the sake of this discussion, "good" will describe "things most people would like, or would consider to be positive", while "evil/bad" will describe "things most people would dislike, or would consider to be negative.

Now that definitions have been presented, on to Epicurus, who had the following to say about the above notion of God:

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able, and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?

As I said, this jibes with my own opinion of God, which is that, in the unlikely event he exists, he is highly incompetent at best and downright malicious at worst.  My reasoning will be provided in full below, but first, I would like to list a likely Christian response to Epicurus and my rebuttal.

SOULS AND MEAT GRINDERS

I have heard a number of arguments that attempt to reconcile the fact that evil exists with the notion of a God who is entirely good, entirely capable of stopping evil, but can't be bothered to do so.  Most of those arguments are along the following lines:

• Human beings have free will.  God set the wheels in motion by creating the universe and (through various prophets) writing the Holy Bible to show us the way, but it's up to us to follow God's path.
• Most evil stems from people who have turned their back on God.
• Negative things obviously beyond man's control, such as natural disasters, diseases, and the like, are either part of God's plan for us all; or, less often, are the fault of the Devil.
  

Since the former proposed cause of evil will be addressed in my forthcoming two cents, I'll deal with the latter first--the Devil.  The Devil supposedly spends all of his time trying to get his hands on human souls by turning living humans away from God's teachings so that when they die, they will be rejected from Heaven and thus forced to go to Hell.  Because man's natural inclination is to sin, most (if not all) people, if struck dead this very moment, would die as unforgiven sinners and would thus go to Hell.  Therefore, if the Devil had the power to directly take human lives by causing natural disasters, then he would presumably kill as many people within as short of a time period as possible, so as to maximize the number of souls entering Hell.  (Granted, he'd wipe out a few "forgiven" and "right with the Lord" folks in the process, and a few lucky souls would get to go to Heaven early, but for wholesale soul-collecting, daily mass murder would be the best strategy.)

To recap: if the Devil were truly to blame for evil events beyond the control of man, then the world would be little more than a giant meat grinder, which would long since have rendered homo sapien an endangered species, with just enough of us left alive to reproduce and create more souls for the Devil to eventually harvest.  I don't deny that  thousands of people die every day from causes other than old age, but with a population of several billion sinners lying around unmolested, I think we can safely conclude that the Devil is NOT responsible for all of the evil in the world that cannot be attributed to man.  Since it wasn't the Devil, and it wasn't mankind, that leaves God as the culprit.  Don't worry, though--it's all part of His plan.

GOD'S MASTER PLAN

"God has a plan for us all."  I've heard this uttered as a reassurance many times, but it has always had quite the opposite effect on me.  I have not (yet) read the entire Holy Bible, but I've read enough to have grave doubts as to God's intelligence.  The Book of Genesis alone is more than enough to demonstrate that planning is not God's strong suit.  It also provides ample evidence that God is not all-knowing, if one is willing to read it with unbiased eyes.  Said Biblical evidence is provided via the footnotes at the bottom of this post.  For now, I'll veer away from the Bible and lay out some common sense, and in the process address the notion that non-man-made evil is part of "God's plan".

HE ISN'T FIT TO MANAGE BURGER KING, AND HE WANTS TO BE GOD?

God is supposedly both able (omnipotent) and willing (good) to stop evil, but chooses not to because

1. Human beings have free will
2. Rescuing a few piddling humans from disasters not of their making would go against God's plan.

These two reasons sound great on their own (unless you happen to be one of those piddling humans caught in a disaster), but any shrewd mind with an understanding of human nature will notice a problem when the two are put together.  For those who aren't endowed with such, I will explain.

If you want something involving someone else to go just the way you want it to, you do everything in your power to ensure that they will act in accordance with your will.  Here in the real world, we have an apt metaphor involving a carrot and a stick--to motivate someone to do what we want, we offer them a reward for compliance (the carrot) or a punishment for disobedience (the stick)--or, if we really want to motivate them, we offer both.  Since God is all-powerful, he doesn't have to screw around with carrots and sticks--to ensure compliance with his will, he can simply not give us free will in the first place.  No disobedience--no sin--no problem!  As always, the simplest and surest solution to a problem is not to create the problem in the first place.  An all-knowing being ought to be smart enough to figure that out.

Let's say for the sake of argument that God knew all that, but wished to conduct an experiment of sorts--a game, to amuse himself for a few millennia.  The game went something like this:

1. Create a sentient race, with free will.
2. Appear in person, and perform various miracles and curses, so that they know of your existence.  Don't forget to play favorites with a few people, and commit a few genocides, so as to keep them on their toes and make sure they pay attention to you.
3. Once you've established yourself as a deity, use a few of them to ghostwrite a Holy Book that describes you, tells them to worships you, and offers both a carrot (Heaven) and a stick (Hell) to motivate them to do whatever you tell them, no matter how asinine or depraved.
4. Here comes the fun part: disappear.  No appearances.  No miracles.  No sending down angels, or raining fire and brimstone, or moving disciples to make bizarre prophecies that frequently fail to come true.  Just disappear, and after the last human to have witnessed you firsthand has passed away, see how many of them still go on blindly believing.

History has shown that quite a few humans went on believing, despite advances in science and education that rendered the Bible more laughable with each passing century.  Quite a few humans still believe today.  That's fine--to each their own.  My problem is that God will still send you to Hell if you do not believe in him and do not live in accordance with his rules.  Back when he was making regular appearances (and smiting non-believers on a regular basis), it was reasonable, if not necessarily just, to punish those who ignored such overwhelming evidence of the God right in front of them.  But if God honestly expects people to believe in him in this day and age, when he has not put in an appearance in thousands of years, and much of the "evidence" of his existence (the Bible) is rejected even by many of those who do believe, then he is every bit the imbecile I believe him to be.  If he wishes to count how many followers he can retain in absentia, that's fine--but he has no right to punish those who do not wish to spend their lives chasing ghosts. An all-knowing God would understand that humans are visual creatures, and thus are unlikely to believe in what they cannot see--a just God, knowing this, would not punish people for acting according to the nature he created them with.

CONCLUSION

Lest my purpose in writing this post be forgotten, I will reiterate it here.  This is not an attempt to blaspheme, or to do the work of the Christian devil and attempt to turn people away from God.  If you are Christian, and your faith enriches your life, then please stay with what works.  This post is simply my two cents, combined with the two cents of Epicurus.

The Bible proves that God is often cruel, malicious, and fickle--frankly, he reminds me of a bratty child.  My reasoning above leads me to conclude that God is of decidedly inferior intelligence as well.  Many people, myself included, have had the experience of working under a supervisor of inferior intelligence.^  It is not a pleasant experience, and not one a person would willingly subject him- or herself to.  That is why, even if I were not a Satanist, I would not be a Christian.  If I'm going to worship a God, I'd just as soon worship one with a brain--or at least some maturity.

^ I am not speaking of my former manager, who was one of the kindest, most competent people I have ever had the pleasure of working with.  I speak of a former superior higher up in the corporate hierarchy.

¹ I suggest re-reading the third chapter of Genesis, where Adam and Eve eat of the forbidden tree.  God wanders around looking for Adam and Eve, and after a slip of the tongue on Adam's part, asks suspiciously if they have eaten the forbidden fruit.  Seems to me an all-knowing God would already know, and would not have to search for the wayward couple.  This is the first of many times in the Bible that the "all-knowing" God resorts to asking questions.

² God has a nasty habit of ordering large numbers of deaths, both of humans and animals, and of killing innocents, including babies and children, whenever members of a population piss him off.  The Skeptic's Annotated Bible has a handy list of such events.

Too foxy for Fox

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned."  --William Congreve

A friend told me yesterday that the Fox and ABC television networks pulled ads for plus-size lingerie maker Lane Bryant because the networks disliked full-figured women.  Being a fan of full-figured women, I decided to make an exception to my general rule of ignoring the media and look into the story.  I found the following:

• A news article on the matter, which includes a YouTube video of the commercial in question.
  
• Lane Bryant's blog posting responding to the censorship of ABC and Fox.
  
• Because Ashley Graham (the model in the commercial) is hot, the YouTube video again. (Ironically, the video is too wide to embed properly in this blog.)
  

Now that the situation has been presented, here's my take on it.  Given the evidence presented in the links above, it seems reasonable to conclude that the Lane Bryant ad was censored solely because it showed a scantily clad full-figured woman.  I believe that decision to be wrong.

Now, I understand that not everybody likes bigger girls.  That's fine--to each their own.  "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder", the saying goes, and it's true.  "Beauty" is a subjective concept, differing from person to person, so it's to be expected that a fair number of people wouldn't want to watch Ashley Graham parade around in lingerie while a so-sultry-it's-funny voice narrates.  It's also to be expected that a fair number, like myself, were delighted to watch the commercial.  Fox's and ABC's treatment of the ads strongly suggests that network executives are NOT fond of larger ladies.  Which, again, is fine--their sexual likes and dislikes are entirely their own affair.

My objection to them pulling the ads (aside from it depriving me of eye candy) is that they don't have the balls to come out and admit that they simply don't want big girls prancing around on their airtime.  As A.J. Liebling famously pointed out, "Freedom of the press is limited to those who own one."  Personally, I wonder what the point is of having your own television network if you can't call the shots regarding what you do and don't show.  I don't agree with their decision in this case, but I respect their right to call the shots in their own lair.  What I have no respect for is the lack of testicular fortitude on the networks' parts.

The above links lay out damning arguments that cram their feeble excuses of "too much cleavage" or "too racy" down their throats.  For those who cannot exert the energy to click the mouse on the links above (yet can mysteriously muster the energy to continue reading this), I'll summarize.

Lane Bryant, who makes lingerie for plus-sized women, paid for the above commercial to be shown on the Fox and ABC networks.  Fox and ABC, too gutless to say "Eww, a chick with meat on her bones!", coughed something about the ad being too sexy for the 9-10PM hour, and jacked around Bryant by forcing multiple edits of the commercial and refusing to show it except between 9:50 and 10PM.  Lane Bryant and others pointed out that the networks had no problem showing Victoria's Secret lingerie ads at any time during this hour--ads which could reasonably be judged more blatant and less tasteful than the Lane Bryant ad.  It was also pointed out that the Lane Bryant ad was positively tame compared to many of the programs on Fox--such child-friendly fare as Family Guy, the Simpsons, and House.*

In conclusion: I demand the man-cards of Fox and ABC network execs for lacking the balls to come out and say, "We don't like big girls".  I salute Ashley Graham, and would be eternally grateful to her if she sent me her phone number.  (Hey, I can dream, right?)  And finally, I'm going to dispense with the politically correct terms I've been using throughout this post and end with: HAIL FAT CHICKS!!!

* Since ABC is Disney-owned, Fox airs some of the more notorious television programs like the ones mentioned above, and Fox works well for a catchy alliterated title, they get picked on more in this post.

Why I write this blog

"Easy reading is damn hard writing."  --Nathaniel Hawthorne

As a born writer, I am compelled to channel the English language through my fingertips.  I really don't have a choice--like a fish, I do what I do because it is what I was born for, and because I would sink helplessly if I didn't.  (Also like a fish, I am sometimes distracted by shiny objects...  but I digress).  Like many writers, I am afflicted with an extremely active imagination, and gifted (?) with a mind that, like a dyslexic kid with A.D.D. and a new microscope, relentlessly analyzes everything that crosses its path, from any number of bizarre angles that normal people would never consider.

As a result, I am at all times following at least one train of thought that a normal human being would consider odd.  Sometimes, these trains of thought are quite amusing as well.  Having these sort of thoughts gives me plenty of subject matter upon which to practice my compulsion to write.  Formerly, I relegated these scribblings to oft-deleted documents in a folder on my computer, but upon discovering Blogger, I decided to put my pen to the test and publish some of my writings, to see if they would live or perish in a medium where criticism can (and often does) come in the form of anonymous comments from infantile minds steering fingers over keyboards with all the dexterity and precision of a three-fingered three-year-old hopped up on crack.*

In addition to serving as a test of my mettle in the arena of amateur writing, this blog serves as a sort of notebook, where I can jot down bizarre lines of thinking in the form of drafts, expand upon them, and ultimately publish the ones I feel have merit (or at least entertainment value).  As the previous four posts have shown, there is no real pattern to the topics--I write about whatever holds my interest at the moment.

Thus far, most of my topic choices--researching French hit men, over-thinking best-selling computer games--have been relatively benign.  I feel it's high time I revealed my darker side, as I promised to do a couple posts back.  Towards that end, I am working on a series of posts dealing with each of the taboo topics: sex, religion, and politics.

I honestly don't know how long each post will be.  I am apolitical, a Satanist (which is essentially an atheistic religion), and I believe very firmly that when it comes to one's love life, discretion is the better part of valor.  But I am a long-winded bastard by both birth and inclination, and I'm sure I'll come up with something.

* As of this post, I have no comments on any of my posts.  Given the number of monkeys with typewriters on the internet, I'll stand by the old adage, "No news is good news."

Things I wonder about Diablo II

"If your reality is the same as my reality, then you're in trouble." --Marilyn Manson

For those of you unfamiliar with the PC game "Diablo II", this blog will make very little sense.  I suggest you skip it, and skip the game as well, unless you have hundreds upon hundreds of hours to waste glued to the computer.  For those of you who are familiar with Diablo II, I am playing the Lord of Destruction expansion, v1.13--those with older versions or without the expansion might wonder what I'm talking about at times.

Diablo II is a kick-ass, highly addictive computer game.  Most people simply enjoy killing demons, collecting treasure, and exploring the (mostly) randomly generated maps.  I enjoy those things as well, but even when I'm mindlessly clicking the mouse and swearing incoherently at little red demons ("QUIT REVIVING, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS!  Dammit, I need mana.  Ah!  There, now you're MY skeleton, bitch!"), my mind never completely shuts off, and I never quit noticing odd little things here and there.  As a result, there are certain things about the world of Diablo II that I can't help but wonder about.  I'm the sort who is driven nuts by little things with no apparent explanation, so do not be surprised when this blog frequently veers into rant territory.

(For those who are wondering: Yes, I do have a life, and yes, I have much more pressing concerns than why a fictional barkeep doesn't sell alcohol.  This blog was written for my own amusement, and hopefully whoever happens to read it is amused as well.)

ACT I: The Rogue Encampment

Why can a Foul Crow drop a bardiche?  How does such a (relatively) tiny little bird even manage to fly while carrying a large pole-arm that my Necromancer can't even use because he hasn't the strength?  This is the odd happenstance that started the wheels in my head turning that eventually led to me writing this blog.

Why don't monsters always drop the items they carry and use in combat?  Granted, archers have a tendency to drop bows more than other treasure, but why don't they always drop bows?  Why don't Fallen always drop small swords?  Why don't Goat Men always drop pole arms?  Mind you, I'm not complaining about the variety of treasure, but it does puzzle me.

The Tree of Inifus--why?  First of all, why is Tristam now apparently inaccessible from any direction, or from any way other than a portal?  Second, why is that portal concentrated between random Cairn Stones?  Third, why do you even need the friggin' scroll to tell you what order to hit the stones in?  If you can activate them with a mere touch, and simply use trial-and-error to determine the order without using the scroll, what's the point?  (Perhaps the Scroll holds the secret to activating the Cairn Stones...  but there's no mention of that in game--only mention of what order to activate them in.)  Oh, and last but not least, why is that scroll in a friggin' tree?

If Deckard Cain has a Scroll of Town Portal pointing to the Rogue Encampment handy, why doesn't he just use it while he's in the cage?  As opposed to making me brave trees, Carver folk heroes (if you listen, the Carvers randomly babble "Rakanishu!"), and exploding cows to come and rescue the long-winded old buzzard?  Don't give me any speculation about having to be on the ground to use it--if I can use a Town Portal in the Arcane Sanctuary (a different freakin' dimension), he can use one in a cage.

Why do Ghosts drop scrolls so often?  They can't pick up items or use them, so they probably don't need to identify them.  (If they're curious, I'm sure they can wait another few decades for Cain to kick the bucket, and they can ask him then.)  And I don't see why a creature that can float through walls would need a Town Portal scroll, except perhaps to save travel time.

Why do Ghosts, Wraiths, and the like leave behind corpses?  For that matter, why are they vulnerable to physical attacks?  This is probably so that classes like the Barbarian have a fighting chance, but it still doesn't explain why incorporeal enemies leave usable corpses.

Why does Andarial hang out in a room full of random, ever-burning fire when she's weak to fire?  I'll grant it looks rather neat, but you'd think a Lesser Evil smart enough to corrupt the Sisters of the Sightless Eye and drive them out of the monastery they've held for who knows how long would be smart enough to hang out in one of the many fire-free rooms.

ACT II: Lut Gholein

Who designed the quest structure?  And can I bitch-slap them?  Seriously--a vast desert and any number of undiscovered tombs to work with, and this is the best you can come up with?  Quest 1 (Radament) is fine.  Quest 2 (the Horadric Staff) is okay, except it should be complete once you have said Horadric Staff assembled--there's no point in dragging it out until the end of the Act when Quest 6 tells you to do the same damn thing.  Quest 3 (Tainted Sun) is a necessary part of Quest 2, and therefore does not deserve to be a separate quest.  (If it were changed so that the Viper Amulet was nonessential to Quest 2, though, Tainted Sun would be fine.)  Quest 4 (the Arcane Sanctuary) is alright, but Quest 5 (the Summoner) is not.  It can't even rightfully be called a quest, since you're not even looking for the Summoner--it's activated when you stumble upon him, kill him, and get a half-assed explanation after the fact.  I have no issue with Quest 6 (the Seven Tombs), aside from how annoying it is to receive the last quest before two or three others.

How come Atma can heal you just like Fara, but she won't sell you any alcohol?  She'll sell Geglash the drunk all the booze he wants, but she won't even offer liquor to the hero who ventured down into the bowels of a city (literally) and avenged her slain family?  I originally speculated that perhaps she "healed" you by giving you a strong drink, but given how often you could potentially come to see her, a savvy businesswoman would think better of it, so the mystery of just how she heals you remains.

What's up with Fara's past?  She seems overly concerned with keeping it a secret, but you'd think she'd realize that the best way to keep people from prying is not to let them know there's anything to pry about in the first place.

Lysander and his false advertising.  When you talk to him about Radament, he says that some of his Exploding Potions should do quite nicely against the undead.  Great!  I'll buy 25!  Wait, you don't carry them?  Lying old cuss.  This especially irks me, since the ability to buy throwing potions (which never are self-replenishing) would be quite handy.  As for Lysander's false advertising, I suspect that perhaps he does make Exploding Potions (deliberately or otherwise) but simply doesn't offer them to outlanders.  Too many other NPCs have complained about the chemist's volatile concoctions for me to believe he doesn't deal in them at all.

Elzix.  Innkeepers who do not offer rooms for shelter (read: health and mana recovery) do not belong in an RPG.  Period.  Even granting that Fara and Atma will both heal you for free, he should at least offer a room.  Or some alcohol.

Why does Duriel (who is not only a demon, but a Lesser Evil) have a Holy Freeze aura?  There's not even a good explanation for this from a game design point of view, because Duriel's tough enough without Holy Freeze to help him.

At the end of Act II, once you've taken care of all the trouble in the desert and Lut Gholein is safe again, how come the brothels don't reopen?  I know that Jerhyn moved them all into his palace when the troubles began to "keep them safe", and as a result they were first in line for slaughter when demons swarmed through a dimensional rift in the basement of the palace, but surely the guards must have saved some of the harem girls?  If ever there was an incentive to fight...

ACT III: Kurast

See how the quest layout actually makes sense?  That's how it should have been done in Act II.  If anyone from Blizzard is reading this, please take care of it next patch, and bitch-slap whoever was responsible for the Act II quest mess.  (Seriously...  even Microsoft wouldn't design something that badly.  Well, okay, maybe Vista.)

I actually have very little issue with Act III.  It makes the most sense out of all of the Acts, and it's quite enjoyable as well.  The only thing I really have to wonder about is Natalya.  Why is she there?  Why does she abruptly disappear?  Then again, she's an assassin, which we all know is code word for "ninja", and ninjas are, by their very nature, inscrutable.

ACT IV: Pandemonium Fortress

Why don't Halbu and Jamella gossip?  I realize that when there's only four NPCs, there simply aren't that many people to discuss--not to mention, word would get around very quickly.  But seeing as how Halbu and Jamella have been stuck with each other for who knows how long, you'd think they'd welcome the chance to vent about each other to a stranger.

The Cain and Tyrael mutual admiration society.  Get a room, you two.  Or at least talk about Halbu and Jamella for a change.  Hell, I'll even welcome some nattering about the Horadrim, just for a change of pace.

Why do Town Portal scrolls drop so frequently in Hell?  From a level design standpoint, it makes sense to give players an easy escape from one of the most difficult parts of the game.  From an in-game standpoint, it makes you wonder what's so bad about Hell when all you have to do is hack a few monsters and portal yourself to safety.

Why does Tyrael suddenly care about Izual?  He (Izual) has been wandering around for how many eons, and Tyrael chooses now to dispose of him?  I don't mind the quest, but I'm curious about the timing.  Maybe Tyrael lost his courage after getting his ass kicked in Act II, and therefore is sending you to dispose of his wayward lieutenant.  ("Why not?" Tyrael muses to himself.  "He's stupid enough to walk into Hell and pick a fight with Diablo...  might as well have him take out Izzy while he's at it.")

Why shatter Mephisto's soulstone?  We saw how well that worked with Diablo's soulstone in the first game.  Do you really want to leave fragments of a Prime Evil lying around in hell for any demon to plunge into their foreheads?  You'd have an army of little Mephistos running around.  Good for a sequel (and Blizzard's pocketbook), but very bad for the world.

Since we're going around shattering soulstones against our better judgment, why doesn't Diablo drop a soulstone?  Or perhaps he does, and Blizzard didn't feel like making you backtrack all the way to the Hellforge to destroy it, so they simply assume that you did and spare you the running around?  That would be a nice, if out-of-character, assumption.

ACT V: Harrogath

Why are the Barbarians such pansies?  Why is my Necromancer or Sorceress having to constantly save the Barbarian warriors wandering around getting themselves snuffed on the Bloody Foothills?  (Okay, it's understandable that a Sorceress would have an advantage, but considering that my Necro has lost every single online duel against a Barbarian, it's got to be embarrassing the Barbarians to no end that I'm constantly saving their necks.)

Why are the Barbarians so brainless?  While we're on the subject of the poor fools wandering around the Bloody Foothills, where are those battle tactics that Barbarians are famous for?  I understand that they're badly outnumbered and weakened by siege, but do they really think that wandering around in ones or twos and attempting to take on half a dozen monsters single-handed is the best way to go about things?

Why is one of the Barbarian elders a Necromancer?  Don't get me wrong--Nihlathak is probably the coolest boss of Act V, and one of my favorites in the whole game.  I only wish that his Corpse Explosion hadn't been nerfed.  But it's highly unusual for the Barbarians (a suspicious people) to allow an outlander to be one of their elders.  Or, if Nihlathak is native, where on earth did he get training as a Necromancer?

Why does Nihlathak have his own temple?  Again, don't get me wrong, this is a cool area--but why does a Barbarian elder have a temple that an evil Necromancer would be proud of?  (Well, okay, he is a Necromancer, but he's not evil--just stupid.)  And another thing: Anya can open a portal right to the temple, so people in town obviously know about Nihlithak's creepy hangout--how come nobody put two and two together that a guy who likes to hang out in the Halls of Anguish, surrounded by zombies and hellspawn, might not be very trustworthy?

Why does Baal get a clone?  A decoy or a lesser minion I could understand, but allowing a Prime Evil to make a clone of himself with most of the same strength and powers is just not nice.  Don't give me any excuses about how players get mercenaries--Diablo deals seven times his normal damage to hirelings, and they don't fare much better against Baal.

Baal's soulstone?  Probably got destroyed in the chaos of Tyrael nuking the Worldstone, so I'm not too worried about it.

MISC. THINGS I WONDER ABOUT DIABLO II

Why does every single key you find open every single locked treasure chest?  Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of having a lock in the first place?  You can buy keys, for crying out loud.  Even granting that the keys are apparently so flimsy that they break after opening one lock, Diablo II's locks simply aren't very good protection for your valuables.

Why do treasure chests rigged to burst into flame when opened contain flammable items?  "I'll store my scrolls in this booby-trapped chest," the wizard cackles to himself, content with the knowledge that he alone can disable the trap.*  An adventurer comes along and opens the chest, which bursts into flames.  "Crap!  My scrolls!" the wizard cries.  "I should have thought that one through.  I know!  Next time I'll put it in a barrel with a zombie!"

How do zombies fit into barrels?  Skeletons, okay--they can fold.  And it's not like they're going to get muscle cramps.  Zombies, on the other hand, aren't so flexible.*  Unless maybe they're contortionist zombies, like that guy from Ocean's Eleven?

Why can Fire Towers and Gargoyle Statues be poisoned?  They gain poison immunity on higher difficulty levels, but I was scratching my head on Normal when I saw these fire-spewing stone objects turn green.

Why don't monsters ever wander in through the Town Portals?  This is something I've wondered since the first Diablo.  Demons try night and day to breach a town's defenses by force or by stealth, but don't take advantage of some idiot leaving open a portal that leads right to the middle of town?  And for that matter, why don't the townspeople recognize the danger and have a designated, heavily guarded area for portals to appear in?  It opens in the same friggin' spot every time, so it wouldn't be difficult to arrange.

Why don't monsters drop cursed items like they did in the first game?  It's nice knowing that when you find an unidentified item, it will automatically be better than a normal item of that type, but some of the cursed items from the first game were hilarious.  And really--how plausible is it that every single enchantment on every single item from every single hellspawned monster bent on destroying mankind is going to be beneficial?

Flying scimitars?  Who cares why?  They're awesome.

That does it for now.  If I think of any more (or if anyone contacts me with things I missed, or explanations I can accept), I will update this post accordingly.

* Thanks to my friend Billy for pointing out that whoever booby-traps treasure chests likely knows ways around the traps, and for observing that a zombie in a barrel is highly implausible, even in a video game world.