The Gunner

Vader must be on his period again, Tim Martins grumbled to himself. There's no other explanation for this. Why else would we be chasing some bullshit little Rebel Blockade Runner through the boondies? It's gotta be that Rebel-chasin' time of the month.

Tim had never liked his job as a Star Destroyer gunner. At the Imperial Academy, he had trained to be a TIE Fighter pilot, but on his first training mission, he'd backed his ship into Grand Moff Freidberg's shuttle, guaranteeing him a spot on one of the Starfleet's lower rungs. Before his deployment to his current Star Destroyer, he had also received an official reprimand for accusing his demotion as being a result of "Freidberg having his period."

His laser blasts continued to miss the runaway spaceship. Periods. Looli must have been on her period, the lying bitch...

On his recent return home for shore leave, Tim had found his wife Looli in bed, enjoying a post-coital cuddle with Mryxaptlk, the Wookiee milkman.

"What the FUCK?!" he'd screamed.

"You know what they say, Timmy," Looli said, rolling a fat Sullustan joint. "Once you go Wookiee, there's no other nookie. I mean, you never had much respect for me as a woman, did you?"

"What are you talking about, you stupid twat?"

She licked the rolling paper. "See what I mean?" she said, turning to Mrxaptlk.

He took a drag of his cigarette. "Rawrrawr," he replied.

Tim glared at his wife's hairy lover. "What, then? What's he got that I haven't got?"

"Grmph," Mryxaptlk grumbled. He pulled the covers down, revealing his crotch.

Timothy gulped. "Oh," he said.

"Sorry, Timothy," Looli said, lighting up the dank Sullustan herb. "Looks like you should just let the Wookiee win."

I always let the other guy win, he now thought, his absence of hits on the enemy ship uninterrupted. That's why I'm in this asswipe turbolaser turret gig in the first place. They could've at least put me on a Super Star Destroyer. Mom always said that I'm Super. Before that rancor bit her head off, anyway.

He turned to Ensign Piett. "Hey, Penis, what planet is that down there again?"

"Tatooine. Also, don't call me Penis, Timothy."

Wah wah wah. That Piett's got no sense of humor- always so high-strung, like he's going to be a Captain or an Admiral someday. Also, what kind of bullshit name is Tatooine? More planets should have sensible names, like back home on Zawikkkitron-Beta 12C.

A huge explosion erupted on the Blockade Runner's dorsal side. "Good shot, Piett!" Lieutenant Archibald rejoined. "You shut down their main reactor!"

Whoop dee doo, Timothy thought as the Star Destroyer reeled in the Blockade Runner with its tractor beam. I'm like a million times better at shooting than ol' Penis. I'm just off my game today cos of Looli and her hysterical girl nonsense. More people should listen to me. I've got opinio-

Three Rebel escape pods flew into sight, fleeing the captured ship in the Star Destroyer's cargo bay and making a desperate dash for the planet surface. "Oh, SHIT!" Timothy shouted, firing dozens of shots, none of which hit anything. "Dammit!" he whined. "Lieutenant, my scope's not working!"

Piett rolled his eyes, looked into his sights, and fired three shots, vaporizing all three pods. "Rebel scum," he said.

Tim's face soured. Ooh, there goes Mr. Fancypants again. Everybody here thinks they're so smart. Wait'll I tell them my transfer request to the Death Star went through. Won't they be jealous when I leave next week? They'll still be out here, and I'll be safe and sound aboard the ultimate weapon! Nobody can get me there!

Suddenly, a lone escape pod blasted its way into view. Tim gasped and brought his laser to bear. "There goes another one!"

"Hold your fire," the Lieutenant replied. "There aren't any life forms aboard. It must have short-circuited."

But Tim had a bad feeling about this one. He furrowed his brow, then looked through his cannon's scope, zooming all the way in. He scrutinized the pod, then recoiled in shock; through the pod's rear window, a protocol droid and an R2 unit were staring back at him! He whirled around. "But sir-"

"For Christ's sake, gunner, just relax," the exasperated Lieutenant admonished him. "What difference does it make if one measly escape pod gets away?"

Piett grinned and followed up on the Lieutenant's rebuff. "Yea, Timothy. What's gonna happen? Is the Death Star gonna blow up or something?"

"Yea!" the Lieutenant giggled, unable to resist joining in. "You'd better blow it up, Timmy, or else the entire Empire might fall!"

Piett and the Lieutenant exchanged a high-five, and all the turbolasers' crew laughed hysterically. Tim's face went red and he turned away. They always laugh at me, he fumed. Well, they'll see. One day I'll be right.

ATTN: Mel Gibson

So I went to the shop to buy some beer earlier and saw a tabloid there called the Daily Star with the headline "THE SECRET AGONY OF THE SPICE GIRLS." I immediately thought of a better cover:

A Charlie Brown Kwanzaa

Watch this and kiss another part of your childhood goodbye.

Vertigo

A couple people have requested that I put the lyrics to "Vertigo" (not the ass U2 record, but my ass hip-hop song) online. Here they are:

Vertigo

Room’s gettin hazy, party’s gettin crazy, everybody get busy, go psycho

Well, my name is J-Son and I’m the king of rock
I’m settin’ you free like my name’s John Locke
Herbie Hancock on the mic, I rock it
Cary Grant cool and I’m hot like the pocket

Out of the races and onto the tracks
Ridin’ on the groove train, those the facts
So ripe it’s rotten so funky it’s fresh
This train is headin’ north by northwest

Cos I am the man who knew too much
I’m cuttin’ all the corners and ridin’ on the clutch
GK Records, fresh bran muffins
Rabbits' feet, microfilms, all the MacGuffins

When I take this mic, you might get shocked
Post hoc ergo propter hoc
Lemmings all dancin’ 'til they get cream-crackered
Takin' out gophers like my name's Carl Spackler

CHORUS
I’ve got the flow, don’t’cha know?
Here we go, vertigo
Movin’ fast, ridin’ low
Here we go, vertigo
The ladies and the holy joes
Here we go, vertigo
Feel the funk head to toe
Here we go, vertigo

I’m like Jesus, my clothes is swaddled
Savior of the party, I’m the king of twaddle
Goin’ down smooth like a bitter lemon Schweppes
Groovin’ all night, bustin’ 39 steps

Bumpin' up the tempo speedin' up the pitch
Master of suspense, I’m a son of a Hitch
I’m too skinny and my pa was too fat
Eatin’ Baby Ruths while he stared at Kim Novak

All the saboteurs, mystery lodgers
Runnin' from the law like Thornhill Roger
Killing off suckas no shadow of a doubt
1 2 3 4 kick a fucker out

It’s uno, dos, tres, y cuatro
Songs are for kids- silly Bono
If you goin’ to a place called Vertigo
Then learn to fuckin’ speak Spanish, yo

CHORUS

I got the bass- goes bump, bump
Shake, shake, shake your rump, rump
I got the bass- goes bump, bump
Shake, shake, shake your rump- break

Listen to the sound of the city/The sounds of science

I'm J-Son and I'm amorous Like Bowie I am glamorous
A Viking, I be spammin' this I'm kickin' out the jams in this
Party people happy, nobody despondent
Trottin' round the globe I'm a foreign correspondent

Burnin' down the house tearin' down the curtain
Haircut’s correct like my name’s Tim Burton
I bet when you stepped, you never expected this
Send your ass packin' like your name was Telemachus

My rhymes is esoteric, don't'cha get hysteric
I'm epic and Homeric but my beats is still numeric
Put my record on the beats'll be rockin' ya
God in the machine y'all, deus ex machina

I’m tellin’ you, sucka, you've got the wrong man
Droppin' hot rhymes and I'm drinkin' Hot Damn
If beats could kill, I’d be guilty of murder
Puttin’ fresh cheese on your soggy hamburger

CHORUS

George Kaplan Records, y’all, the fresh shit

The Beastie Boys' Children's Book

Enough said.

STONEHENGE DESTROYED

It was supposed to be an ordinary visit. I barely escaped with my life.

Noah Explained?

Courtesy of that other Jason (Kottke), here's a New York Times story about a recently-discovered crater deep below the surface of the Indian Ocean; it's 18 miles wide and produced a tsunami powerful enough to kill 1/4 of the world's population. Kickass.

There's nothing in the world that scares me more than groups of Asians.

Thus, imagine my horror when I found myself in a room filled wall-to-wall with them. I didn't know what that "studying abroad in China" form meant when I filled it out- if I'd known it had meant throwing myself into a den of Asians I would've told them to shove that form where the Asian sun don't shine.

I began sweating profusely. I furtively glanced around; the Asians had me completely surrounded. I avoided drawing the attention of their beady Asian eyes. Some wizenly old Asian was at the front of the room, gesticulating madly and talking Asian to all the Asians, some of whom nodded their heads in some form of Asian acknowledgment. My god, I thought; it's a fucking Asian propaganda meeting. There's a new Asian threat. I must report back to the CIA*!

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I slowly rose and left the Asian cadre, and to my credit none of the Asians pursued me. When I emerged onto the street, I grabbed the first non-Asian passerby I saw and screamed "My God, man, I'm on a mission of impossible importance. I must report back to the Security Council at once. What must I do?"

Proving that innocent looks can conceal nefarious motives, the passerby replied "You look like an American student. You do realize that you're in China, right?"

Lord God Almighty Jesus in heaven- he was onto me. I looked deep into his eyes and my heart stopped. I saw through his cunning Asian ruse. Through a haze of almost uncontrollable adrenaline, I asked "Are you...ASIAN?"

The reply jolted me to the essence of my being. "Well, my father was from Wisconsin, but my mother's from Beijing. So yes, I suppose."

The bile volcanically rose through my esophagus, spurred on by the Asian stimuli. It wouldn't be long now before the Asian hives began to break out all over my skin.

The Asians had left me no choice. I pushed the emergency button on my utility belt, beamed myself up to my space-ship and blasted off into the Asianless void. In the infinite cosmos I would find security and an Asian-free haven.

EPILOGUE

I'm doomed. My space-ship has crashed on the remote planet Asia Minor. With no communications equipment left functioning, I'm forever trapped on this planet of the Asians. I cursed myself- if only that guy at Jiffy Lube had checked my space-ship's Navitron, none of this would have happened. Then again, the Navitron was Asian-manufactured. Also, the Jiffy Lube guy was an Asian. Fook.


*CIA = Center of Intelligence about Asians

Air Post-Colonial Travel Guide.

Hello and welcome aboard Air Post-Colonial! We hope you enjoy your personal copy of our Travel Guide, designed to keep conscientious consumers just like you as happy, comfortable, and carefree as possible as you journey to one of our African destinations.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

WHERE TO SHOP: DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO
They’re massacring, burning, slashing, and destroying prices on goods and services in Congo, where special sale offers can be found across the board. For you nervous nellies, you can commission a Congolese soldier escort for $9.99 a day (an additional $5 charge applies if the soldier has reached puberty). Prices are so low that things are on the verge of chaos. No, seriously
Special: WOMEN'S FASHION
Jewelry
Makeup
Genital Mutilation
Hair Tips
SPECIAL FEATURE - Pucci Designer Full-Body Veils: This season, don't be caught without one. Or else

WHERE TO EAT: COULIBRI RESTAURANT
In Niger, the friendly locals are dying to see you. At Coulibri, enjoy the finest three-course meals while watching the local children play their favorite games, like Milk and Flour Chase and Collect the Flies

WHERE TO STAY: THE PLAZA IDI AMIN
Formerly the Nile Mansions Hotel, the deals at this hotel in Kampala, Uganda's capital, are killer

INTERVIEW: Leonard Nimoy
“I guess when I went to Sierra Leone for that book-signing, I should’ve remembered that the life expectancy is only forty years before I wrote ‘Live long and prosper.’ No big deal, though- there was only a 29.6% chance they could read anyway!” Mr. Spock himself tells hilarious anecdotes from his travelogue-promotion tour

BUSINESS NEWS
HIV levels are at record highs in Botswana, along with malaria, bacterial diarrhea, hepatitis A, and typhoid fever. Real estate prices are cheaper than ever

TRAVEL TIPS
Useful Phrases - Local translations of everyday sayings like "Stop! I can pay you whatever you want!" and "No, please, don't shoot!"
SPECIAL FEATURE - A Letter from the Chairman of Air Post-Colonial: CEO Conrad Joseph-Griffith responds to the U.S. Surgeon General and Secretary of State's joint letter advising travelers to Africa (entitled "Don't Go to Africa")

Thanks for flying Air Post-Colonial! Don't forget to enjoy your complimentary Tutsi Roll Pops- they're genocidally delicious!

Air Post-Colonial. Bringing you successful vacations in failed states for less.

Coming Soon

Ready or not, here I come.

Robot Jokes

From McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Read them and laugh...before we're all destroyed.

The media will always cover what matters. ALWAYS.

Here's a post about the BIG HUGE EVIL JOHN KERRY COMMENTS. Don't get me wrong- what Kerry said was quite blithe and stupid, but so too was its prioritization (not sure if that's a word) in the mainstream news media. I'm reminded of the way the networks covered Bill Clinton's interview on Fox News, to which I'd post a link to the YouTube video of The Daily Show's coverage- oh wait, Comedy Central took all their videos down. Bloodsuckers.

A Newly Found Poetic Classic

yeti yeti yeti
yetis like spaghettis
pastas, not the O's
and yetis like their hoes

-Maya Angelou

Richard Dawkins Has a Posse

Here's a pretty sweet graphic of one of my new heroes, Richard Dawkins. His new book, The God Delusion, bears a recommendation from musical hero Brian Eno (who says the book is ". . . an invitation to explore an exhilarating new view of what it means to be human and alive now. . . I see this as a book for a new millennium, one in which we may be released from lives dominated by the supernatural and the metaphysical.") and is dedicated to literary hero Douglas Adams, a beautiful quote from whom serves as the book's epigraph: "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"

A New Entry from Cinema's Next Great Auteur

Here's a short movie written and directed by one Ms. Michelle Mogavero. Next to her, Catherine Hardwicke is just someone who fucked James Cameron, Sally Potter is a raging bull-dyke, and Nora Ephron is...well, Nora Ephron.

Why Darren Aronofsky Is Kooler than Jesus

Going to the cinema is like Sunday mass for me, just without the sheer repetitious boredom and desire to be at home flossing. Movies offer a look beyond what we know or a new way of understanding what we know; a great movie does both.

Which brings us to Darren Aronofsky. His second feature, "Requiem for a Dream," is his more popular one (at least, as popular as a movie about heroin addiction whose characters wind up completely insane, as prostitutes, or dismembered can be), but his first, a story about finding a mathematical pattern in the stock market and the Tanakh called "Pi," was so shocking and so harrowing that my hands shook for five or ten minutes after I finished seeing it for the first time.

His new movie, "The Fountain," sounds equally amazing; it's a love story about a man trying to save his dying wife, a triplicate narrative that spans 1,000 years (with sequences in the time of the Mayans, the present, and 500 years in the future). Here's an article from Wired News about how Aronofsky created the effects- it sounds unlike any other process I've heard of, as innovative as Kubrick shooting chemical reactions for "2001" or Douglas Trumbull's effects in "Close Encounters" and "Blade Runner" or Lucas' team inventing motion control to shoot the spaceships in "Star Wars." Get ready for cinematic Rapture- we're about to see something unlike anything we've seen before.

On a related note, here's a piece in the Guardian by author Paul Auster about the particularly wonderful art of storytelling.

Stop Making Sense

David Byrne is one of my favorite people. He makes really wonderful music (see "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts," which he made with Brian Eno, and his entire career with the Talking Heads- he wrote my favorite song, "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)") and he sees something special in everyday objects like chairs and Microsoft PowerPoint, turning them into art forms. All in all, a neat guy.

Anyway, here's a journal post from his site where he makes an interesting point: that irrational beliefs and rational scientific advancement might be more closely related than you'd think.

Phony Beatlemania

The following is excerpted from a Guardian interview with Mick Jones and Paul Simonon of the Clash, and for me, it sums up everything that made the band great. Maybe they really were the only band that mattered.

Talk turns to 1977, the B-side of their debut single White Riot. As statements of cocky intent go, it still sounds startling, matching a musical scorched-earth policy - "No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones!" - to what sounds like a call to immediate armed revolution. Jones claims the lyrics have been misinterpreted, and the song is a little more altrusistic than it seems ("the 'Sten guns in Knightsbridge' thing wasn't like we had Sten guns in Knightsbridge, it was like, we're concerned about that kind of thing, it was around the time of the Spaghetti House siege"), but yes, he concedes, it would be nice if someone wrote something as iconoclastic as that today. "They could say, no U2, Jay-Z or Beyoncé in 2007," he chuckles, then suddenly looks a bit folorn. "But it's never going to happen, is it? I don't think things mean as much now. It's been so reduced now to the sliver of the end of a boiled sweet. They've done such a job on us, no one's ever going to be able to think like that any more. But you can't wait around, you've gotta do something. But the thing is" - his voice takes on a slightly conspiratorial tone - "if you have lunch, you can't do it. You've got to do it instead of having lunch. If you say, let's have lunch, you'll talk about it and you'll never do it." He takes a slurp of his bloody mary. "We used to just do it."

A brief silence is broken by a laconic voice. "Mick," says Simonon softly, "we couldn't afford lunch."