dreadcrumbs

Prejudice and The Reanimated

I'm trying to figure out why we, as a people, are afraid of zombies.

It makes sense that you're going to be cautious around anything that wants to eat your brain, but I think we fear them in principle. Just the idea of them is enough to make us shiver and hide.

It's weird. There are other things, things more likely than a zombie to kill or mutilate us that we don't fear.

Let's take hippos (the natural foil of the zombie) as a counterpoint. I like hippos. They're cool. They star in many of the books I read to my toddler son as he sits on my lap. I would seek out baby hippos and hug them if I thought I wouldn't immediately be trampled to death by their mother. And that's the thing. Hippos are dangerous. They're responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other animal (except humans). That's got to be way more than the "death-by-zombie" figure.

But still we shudder at the animated dead, leaving them out of the lucrative plush toy market.

Shouldn't we be happy to see our loved ones revivified? Or, probably more likely, sad that they aren't quite the same conversationalists they were before the change? Nope. We aren't happy or sad. We're creeped out, freaked out, or screaming.

Well, I've got no problem with them, as long as they're on the other side of a stout metal door. Or in a gladiatorial pit, fighting other zombies for my amusement.

Now zombie hippos would be another matter. 3,000 pounds of angry rotting meat. That would be something to really be afraid of.

Yesiree.

Zombie. Hippos.

Free Will and My Traitorous Lungs

Here's the thing: whenever I start to think about my own breathing, I discover I can't breathe at all unless I think about it. And then I'm flooded with the fear that I'm going to get distracted and suddenly suffocate via forgetfulness. Which is what is happening to me now. Breathe. I'm having a hard time writing because Breathe. I have to keep reminding myself that I need to Breathe. And if I get distracted for a second and forget just how long it has been since I last took a breath, I GASP! And then have to focus on regular Breathe. breathing again, which means my thoughts Breathe. never get too deep. .... So, basically, it's a living nightmare. Ultimately I know that my body will autonomously breathe, whether I think about it our not, since I regularly sleep five hours in a row and all my dreams are not about breathing.

But here comes the dilemma. Which is the greater horror: having to consciously manage all bodily systems, or to renliquish your will to an autonomous husk?

I mean, if I can breathe and my heart can beat without my even thinking about it, could my legs creep and my grip close around unsuspecting windpipes too? Probably.

Not that I have any choice, really. The cards have already been dealt, and the autonomous husk has a full house. Even when I am able to wrest control of my breathing from the unthinking beast, all it does is make me feel anxious and tense. So I guess I'll let it continue bossing me around. I can't complain about its work so far, so if it feels I need to wake up in a cornfield in the neighboring county at 4:00 AM, who am I to complain? It's probably for my own good.

Microstory Monday

Indubitably Delicious "Woah, Jimmy. I know you said this 'Crispy Critters' cereal was entirely new, but this is ridiculous." "You don't like the burnt hair." "No, no I don't."

Energy Weapons in the Workplace

I'm not a gun person. I don't go hunting, and I never had a BB gun as a child, not that I can remember, anyway. It's possible I'm blocking out some horrible BB accident involving mass eye-putting-out, but, like I said, I don't remember.

But I've always wanted a ray gun. A laser pistol, phaser, blaster, disruptor, whatever. A hand-held weapon that spits out a concentrated beam of energy. I'll accept any kind of energy. Plasma, light, electricity...anything that's shiny and burns or vaporizes its target.

And I don't want it for the Great Power it would certainly give me over my fellow man. That would be a bonus, but I really want it as a fashion accessory. I mean, at a glance, what makes Buck Rogers Buck Rogers? You know, rather than just any other guy? Sure, he might have a jetpack and a finned helmet (both highly desirable), but what really makes the man is the ray gun. All the heroes of my childhood had ray guns. Captain Kirk, Han Solo, Starbuck, Flash Gordon, and the aforementioned Buck Rogers.

I bring this up to explain my obsession with the remote control in one of our conference rooms. It turns the ceiling mounted projector on and off, changes its video inputs and settings, basically everything you would expect such a remote to do. But it also shoots laser beams. Sure, it's supposed to be used to point out items on the projected screen during a presentation, but still. It's a laser beam.

So, obviously, whenever I'm in there, I play with it. It isn't powerful enough for my liking, in that it doesn't cut through metal or flesh, but that just means I can target more objects without fear of disintegrating them. Yesterday I trained the weapon on the ceiling, randomly targeting different tiles. Without thinking, I zapped one of the little fire extinguisher prongs, and immediately heard some kind of industrial "THUNK." The entire building was then treated to two beats of the fire alarm claxon.

Now, I don't know if my ray gun was really the cause, but that's a pretty big coincidence. I'm guessing the sprinklers didn't go off because the flash was so brief. Maybe. Like I said, I can't be sure that it was me at all. So now I'm tempted to try again, just to find out. But I won't. I'll be sitting as far away from the laser pistol as possible from now on.

I want to keep my job, after all. I'll need the money if I'm going to get that jetpack I want.

What Lies Behind: The New Larvae

Something like a month ago I talked about the hobbled mutant potato bugs in my backyard. Since I posted that, my wife has undertaken a personal vendetta to exterminate the entire potato bug civilization behind our house. She sits back there with a rock in hand while our toddler plays in his sandbox. Whenever she sees a bug, she crushes it beneath the brutal weight of her stone. She estimates a death toll somewhere around 200. And still they come.

However, now that the bugs have a natural predator (my wife), their evolution has proceeded startlingly fast. No longer will they lie stupidly on their backs when toppled, and their average size has increased about 50%.

Moreover, we have begun to discover mounds of earth appearing on the lawn. I had originally attributed these to my toddler, who loves to deposit piles of dirt in random and unlikely locations. But while idly picking at one of these heaps the other day, I discovered a tunnel beneath the outer layer of dirt. A hidden tunnel. Each one of these dirt heaps had actually been a concealed entry/exit to an underground transit system.

The tunnels themselves are about three times larger than the body circumference of the average potato bug, so they are either

a) building in anticipation of more gargantuan generations,
b) making headroom for when they begin to walk upright, or
c) made by or for some other creature that has not as yet revealed itself

I suppose it is safe to say I no longer really have a lawn, in the normal sense. The grass, never extremely healthy, has now simply become set dressing for the horror show percolating beneath the dirt.

I'm thinking of selling the rights to the Sci-Fi Channel. They love those made-for-TV bug movies. If you missed the two hour epic "Mansquito," you really ought to check it out when they show it again in a couple weeks.

Kinetic Farming and You

For those of you currently looking for something larger than yourselves to fear or venerate, let me present myself.

No, no. Kidding. I can't know for certain that I'm bigger than you. Almost, but not for certain.

Anyway, let me really present my Theory of Cosmic Parasites. The TCP answers the universal query "Why am I here?" with "To power Their televisions." Them, of course, being the Cosmic Parasites in question.

Something advanced civilizations, people, or other Unclassified Entities always need are sources of power. We (humans) do. Right now we usually burn or blow things up to get it. Ideally what any power-seeking Thing wants is some kind of perpetual motion engine that spits out more X (energy, in this case) than you put into it.

So, naturally, I posit the existence of some kind of in- or semi-comprehensible being(s) that keep the Earth and its inhabitants from exploding or wasting away because the fidgetings of man are Their reactor. We wriggle, flop, flail, or walk, and They get a volt for their batteries.

I was brought to this line of thought because I was trying to figure out if I would get more electricity from strapping someone to a stationary bicycle generator (and forced them to pedal) than I would if I just drained (and stored) all of the electrical impulses from his body with some kind of death ray. It seems like I would get more from the bike. Plus, it would keep coming, if I kept feeding the rider. The food would cost some interpolated energy, but not much.

So, since we humans, in our infinitesimitude, are able to create a stationary bicycle that creates energy, why couldn't something more cosmic create a big blue marble that does the same thing?

So there you are. The Earth is the treadmill of the gods, and we are the hamsters.

At least, you know, that's what I would do if I was a cosmic being. Which I'm not.

No, really, I'm not.

Nightmare Podiatry

I really hate untrustworthy feet. I think everyone of standard bodily configuration operates under certain assumptions about the function of their feet. You think that they will sit patiently below our ankles until you need them to walk, run, or kick with, and won't complain about it. It's what they're there for, apart from keeping us from bleeding to death from open wounds at the end of our legs, but a thick scab would do that just as well.

My feet have begun to get uppity. If I don't use them for longer than say, an hour or two, and then decide I need to walk any distance at all, they scream at me. It feels like my bones had slowly been re-shaping themselves into another shape while I left them alone. When those bones are wrenched back into normal alignment, well, it doesn't feel good.

Apart from being subtly enraged at such a rebellion, I do wonder what shape my feet would ultimately take if I let the bone flow continue unmolested. I mean, if I was in a coma for several months, what would I wake to find my feet had become? I'm sure it would just be some meaty chaotic mass, but if I could be assured they would transform into something cool like eagle talons, I might just let things take their course.

Plus I would have an excuse just to lie around doing nothing. I can see it now.

Wife: "Honey, could you please get your butt out of bed and do something useful?"
Me: "Sorry, no. I need to stay off my feet. I'm becoming a miraculous bird-man."

Microstory Monday

The Horrible Efficiency of the Power Company

When the earthquake hit, I was in the kitchen making cookies. A ceiling beam hit my back, the refrigerator pinned my arm, and my right knee crashed through the oven's viewing glass.
I had been waiting for a rescue crew in the dark for two hours when the electricity was restored.
You'd think I'd be happy about it, but my knee feels funny, and I'm starting to smell burning meat.

The Flawed Maw

Why don't teeth grow back? I currently have all my teeth (except those pesky wisdom ones), but the world is a strange and violent place, and I can imagine many circumstances where I could lose one tooth, two teeth, or pieces of several. I would feel much more comfortable wandering through an industrial manufacturing facility, for example, if I knew that all damage I received from various blows to the head by robot arms could be repaired.

Of course, now that I think about it, eyes don't grow back, either. But I don't really expect a gouged eye to grow back. I guess I just don't think about them in the same way.

I imagine most people, like me, think of teeth as either mouth-housed fingernails or extensions of their bone structure. And both nails and bones tend to repair themselves. You're actually supposed to break off(or clip, if you must) pieces of your fingernails from time to time. And I know from personal experience that a severely damaged/removed toenail will grow right back to its original state with enough time. Given, bones won't grow back if they're completely amputated (for most of us, anyway), but you can put two halves of a broken bone together and they'll at least knit themselves solid again.

But teeth, those bastard step-children of the skeletal system, get short shrift when it comes to regenerative genetics. If they break, they break. Humans are then forced to replace them with pieces of wood, plastic, lead, gold, or whatever else happens to be lying around.

Generally, it seems like the human body is a pretty clever construct, but when we ultimately have to rely on reason and tool-making to accomplish a thing as basic as eating, I don't know. It seems like one of our evolutionary engineers may have dropped the ball.

I guess I just have to cross my fingers and hope we always have a sizable population of dentists. I just couldn't call myself a man if I was forced to exist only on smoothies and various slurried meats.

The Groan of the Meeting-Laden

I'm no expert on organizational communication, or, heaven forbid, group dynamics, but after going through three five hour meetings in as many days, I've developed some opinions.

Most of them have something to do with electrocution.

In my estimation, most of the problems with meetings, especially long meetings, have to do with people, and behavior modification of people seems best accomplished by electrical shock. Stimulus-response behavior modification, anyway. I'm going to assume reason just won't work, because, again, we're dealing with human beings.

My suggestion: every team should hire an unpredictable dwarf, give them a cattle prod, and let them creep about in meetings, zapping people at will.

The meetings would likely then be much shorter. So to speak.

And they would surely be more entertaining. I'm willing to risk a few volts for that alone.