I became abruptly aware recently of a New And Troubling form of Psychological Behaviour. I call it the NEUROTIC GOOGLEFLEX, and it is a dark and twisted instinct which has — within a few short years — become lodged deep in the TechnoPsyche of our generation.
It occurs at that point — and we’ve all felt it — when a random and often ludicrous observation strikes our minds. On the surface — or when said out loud — these notions appear crazier than a weasel in a wetsuit, but they arrive in our brainbits with such a profound inner-certainty that we instantly start doubting our own sanity.
In times of Yore we would’ve kept quiet about these ideas, for fear of righteous ridicule. Nowadays there’s a different kneejerk: leaping for The Reassuring Clickmagic Of Google.
This is not, you understand, to prove to yourself that you’re right. No: this notion is far too batshit for that. But rather the aim is to find out quickly and efficiently if other people have had the same fuckwitted idea too; and thus to mitigate your sense of Twattage through association.
Sometimes it works. Mostly it doesn’t. Thanks to the Nuerotic Googleflex, for instance, I’ve learned — cruelly — that I alone am convinced freshly rinsed spinach smells like Mince Pies, and that the guy in That Hair-Dye Commerical — no matter how ardently I believe it — absolutely is not related to Josef Stalin. But sometimes, oh: the relief! For instance, it may indeed be true that human nostrils did not — despite my epiphany to the contrary — evolve to point downwards as a way of preventing evil spaceborne viruses from tumbling into them; but I can rest assured, thanks to Google, that my Retarded Moment Of Inspiration was at one time shared by the man who discovered Supernova nucleosynthesis. Ie: A Clever Bloke.
That’s the real phenomenon at work here: seizing in your moment of self-doubt the comforting knowledge that otherwise smart people can sometimes be just as moronic as you. Welcome to the Futtur.
Minding my own business in a hypnogogic state overnight — somewhere between PISSED-AND-KNACKERED-AND-NEED-TO-SLEEP, and IT’S-TOO-HOT-AND-I’M-TOO-ANNOYED-TO-NOD-OFF — I became snagged on the barbs of an evolutionary conundrum, and could only escape by pondering it through to its natural conclusion. Since we’re all Scientifically-Minded types here, with questioning minds and a willingness to grapple Important Issues, I wanted to share it with you For The Good Of Mankind. It went like this:
What business does a Unicorn have with a fucking-great Horn?
This, you will agree, is the sort of Important biological issue we should all be contemplating more often, rather than all that dreary Cure A Major Disease nonsense.
Now before you say, I know: Beware The Danger Of Silliness. You take a Vital scientific question like this — one the Whole World will benefit by answering — and before you know it you’ve sacrificed all your Sensible Principals in a slew of unprovable nonsense.
So don’t you worry: I put my foot down straight away: “As a receptacle for White Majiks” wasn’t going to cut the mustard this time, oh-ho no. In my view, just because you’re a fictional creature beloved of floppy-haired tutu-wearing numpties with pink wallpaper, or bestiality enthusiasts with penetration issues, it doesn’t mean you can avoid playing by The Rules. Put a penny in Darwin’s cap, oh Softly Glowing Creature Of The Moon, and stop being a prat.
So. Hypothesis #1: As A Weapon. Bollocks. We’re talking about a fucking horse here. It’s a grass-munching preybeast with eyes on the sides of its head and a neat line in Kicking Backwards. It’s programmed at a genetic level to Frolic Then Run Away, or end up smeared on a Frenchman’s toast. It can’t even see what’s directly in front of it, let alone jab it with a sticky-pointy-twiddly prick. And it’s not like this thing’s got structural design on its side either: if it’s planning on running full-tilt at an obstacle with a whacking-great lance on its forehead, it better hope its skull is three-inches thick and fused to its spine. Which — unless every soft-focus goth-baiting Fantasy Painting Ever is wrong — our pinheaded specimen’s isn’t. Trying to play The Stabby Game with anything tougher than cardboard is only going to succeed in mashing the poor thing’s brains out. If a rhino is a biometric tank, a unicorn is a fucking Moped.
Hypothesis #2: The Rut. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that our pointy-faced friend isn’t just some serene Glade-lurking eidolon given to Bothering Virgins, but a red-blooded male looking to inject some serious horsey heat into The Herd. He’s got to fight for the right, right? Right. But if you look at the other Big Horny Brutes out there — antelopes, goats, bulls, Vikings — what you quickly see is an arsenal made for grappling and wrestling: big, butch, contest-of-strength stuff, rather than a foppish ability to Poke Your Opponent In The Eye. Even the big tusky-fuckers — walruses, warthogs and whatnot — know better than to grow face-swords that can’t physically be bashed together without instantly killing both parties.
No: there’s really only one plausible hypothesis to explain that disastrously-designed equine spike, and it looks like this:
Hypothesis #3: The Egg Tooth. Beloved of newly-hatched chicks, snakes, and lizards. A jag of bone, present at birth, which allows our squealing, cold-blooded chums to cut their way free from the crispy shell of an Omelette-in-Waiting.
Unicorns (based on all available evidence) do not lay eggs. Which means…
Yes: I’m afraid that when one considers the Unicorn Problem with the slightest sense of genuine inquiry, one quickly realises that the only possible reason these creatures have a horn is to violently hack their way free from a mother’s womb. This is not some noble, nocturnal sprite to be worshipped and adored, but a matricidal precursor to Giger’s Alien — a wasp-larvae born in gore and gristle, whose legendary association with Chastity has less to do with chivalry than a species-wide assumption that any female who isn’t a virgin has already been slaughtered from the inside-out — and next time you date some frilly-clothed psuedogoth gitwit with a Thing For Mythology, who refuses to put-out after twenty bloody dates, you be sure and tell them I said so.
THIS WEEK I HAVE BEEN MOSTLY HATING:
We all know someone who does it. You’ve got 140 characters to express yourself in an interesting, friendly, conversational or at the very least Spleen-Venting way, and what do these Swampfuckers do? They say “So Annoyed About This.” They say “Yay! So Happy about Something!” They say “Oh Wow! Didn’t Expect That!”
By running this bumsoup through a CUNT TRANSLATOR I have scientifically established that the intended message, in every case, looks like this: “OH GOD PLEASE VALIDATE ME, ASK ME TO ELABORATE, GIVE ME LICENSE TO SELF-OBSESS!”
These empty-souled Insecurity Traps can at least be ignored, and if you’re stupid enough to indulge one with a reply there’s nobody to blame but yourself.
But hark! It gets worse. The vacuum-twitterers have a posse of twisted eight-nippled urethral violation Mutant Cousins, known only as THE SNIDIFIERS. Behold as they quickfire snippy criticisms, spaff-out sticky attacks, and generally Talk Shit About Real Actual People… then cunningly refrain from mentioning their names.
These are not Haters to be celebrated. Their spleen-squirts are not generalised, not observational, not For The Good Of Mankind… but anonymously targeted. They’re spat-out with all the withered elastic force of a pallid hollow scrotum, and their battle-cries are “You Know Who You Are”, and “Naming No Names”, and “I Can’t Say Who, But…”
From their mimblings the CUNT TRANSLATOR decodes: “I haven’t the Balls to Confront Anyone Directly, Nor The Grace To Mind My Own Business, Nor The Mind-Sphincter To Restrain My Shit-Sniping; But I Cherish The Paranoia Of My Readers And Yearn For Their Sticky, Shameful Requests For Reassurance.”
And then the CUNT TRANSLATOR overloads and explodes in revulsion.
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Send wurdz, thoughts, stories, HATINGS, and Vac-formed pigeons to the ONLY CHECKED OCCASIONALLY AND I MIGHT NOT BOTHER REPLYING AT ALL HA HA HA
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C/O William Christensen,
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(Disclaimer: Secretly, I’m nice.)
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