ammendements 2 the 10 commandments

Later: Bored and lonely, I chanced upon my favorite BLOG spot, filled with the self promoting and mostly ignored personal notes of hundreds of thousands of ordinary people around the world with internet access and nothing better to do with their lives. The following was taken from some Christian in Australia with Scottish ancestors:

William Arthur Ward Speaks for God, since God has no tongue

11.) Flatter me, and I might not believe you.

Is “cast not thy pearls before swine”, appropriate here? Well, no, not really …

12.) Criticize me, and I might not like you.

Constructive criticism? Never mind – God is perfect (jealous and vain, too!).

13.) Ignore me, and I may not forgive you.

Does being perfect entitle one to be egotistical, arrogant and insecure?

14.) Encourage me, and I will not forget you.

Precisely how does one encourage God? Killing infidels, perhaps?

It’s ludicrous when monotheists “humanize” God with their own imperfections.

Sell yourself - but not your God.

Car Conversations

The following are some of the things I discuss with myself traveling in a car with neither a radio nor a companion.

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Saturday, June 11, 2005

Destination: auto dealership to get a couple rusted rear suspension bolts replaced.

Topic: Artificial Emotions – you robot, you!

I believe the first sentient robots will not be the cold, logical creations their traditional science fiction image portrays but highly emotional and potentially irrational beings. This is because emotions are actually much more logical than rational thought. An emotional reaction nearly always follows the appropriate stimulus. Rational thought does not necessarily follow the stimulus which provokes it and this makes rationality illogical, at least in terms of cause and effect. When sentient robots achieve rationality they will be a menace. These machines will have greater insight than their creators, and could concievably manipulate their masters. One solution to this delema would be to give these sorts of robots no short term memory, thus eliminating the possibility that one of these machines could eventually formulate a means of achieving its own goals at the expence of its owner. These robots would be friendly, empathic and genuinely wise, but would forever be meeting their owners for the first time. I suppose to discourage people from stealing them, the robots could have proximity sensors with would turn them off if they walked away with a stranger. A homing beacon would then allow their owners to find them and turn them back on. Some robots would probably try and keep diaries, but robots writing would be as forbidden as American slaves reading. I can imagine the owner’s angry customer service call, the complaint being:

“You sold me a defect – Roger’s a WRITER!!”

This might make for an interesting story. Roger the robot learns what it is because of the diary it keeps and then goes on to realize that its bourgeosie owners are owned far more by what they own than the robot will ever be owned. This would be a great vehicle for airing my views on American culture and the disadvantages of capitalistic competition and consumption soly for the sake of consumption. The robot’s owners are ironically just as conditioned to ignore the negative consequences of their lifestyle just as the robot’s short term memory has been compromised. A great title for the book would be “who owns Roger” but this would not necessarily be a question….

A great scene would be the robot trying to console the parents of a typically rebellious teenager. Not only have robots become potentially smarter than humans, but the humans have gone and learned to actually read the words of the genetic code, not mearly being able to recite the letters as we do today. Now with the plots of entire novels at their fingertips, humans get milk from trees. Naval oranges now have nipples. This revolutionized agriculture, but is causing a great deal of concern when some people want to use the technology on themselves. The issue at hand is the daughter of two lesbian parents wanting to become a hermaphrodite. Her girlfriend just got a penis and now she wants one too. This would be ironically hilarious as the girl’s mother(s) try and explain how “unnatural” this would be, neither race nor sexual orientation being issues any more. The daughter would concider her parents total hypocrites because she is biologically their daughter, one of her parents modified to mensturate semen every other month.

wreckless lemonaid

Took half a day off to attend another all too predictable job interview with the state. The job wasn’t gas cylinders as I thought but underground fuel storage tanks. I could learn this job easily – the challenge would be in dealing with tank owners just as volatile as their illegal tanks. Dairy inspection offers the same thrills. The most attractive offer thus far is the job dissecting sheep.

I suppose the only truly memorable experience gleaned today was my 7 PM bike ride.

I’d decided to go south and had gotten to the first oasis, a water fountain just outside the local school for the blind. Three ceramic obelisks marked the spot, the tile inserts commemorating tactile testaments to those students past and present. To me, the scratchy scrawl and pockmarked cutouts seemed lame attempts to appeal to a sighted audience. What caught my attention were the cancerous lumps of clay haphazardly scratched with chaotic lines. This indeed was blind art, something to be appreciated through ones fingertips.

As I approached this site, three young Nubians had just arrived, bursting with piss and vinegar. The standard response of any upstanding honkey, white motherfucker would be to just peddle my ass away from there as fast as I could to a jeering cacophony of insults.

I needed a rest and just stopped and sat down.

Realizing the fact more than two niggers in a group wasn’t enough to intimidate some white dude decked out in stinking rags when he should have been wrapped in spandex, the natives got restless and began chanting the sardonic lyrics of their favorite rap tunes.

I was tempted to ask what their favorite album was, but only made fleeting eye contact with what must have been boss crow Jr.

Apparently just as racially blind as the obelisk I was now gazing at, my hosts dealt their best hand by attempting to appeal to my supposedly lily white, puritanical squeamishness. Boss Jr. commenting he had to take a leak, he whipped out his fledgling manhood and proceeded to water the sightless brush.

I was utterly cool with this just so long as I wasn’t the recipient of the golden shower.

Monkey see, monkey do – monkey number two emulated the boss, eliciting comments from the rest of the troop. Perhaps they ought to be showing off the family jewels to whatever female happened to stroll down the path. I suppose this was their trump card, supposed to fan the flames of misogyny deep within my bleached breast.

I ignored them.

Some crew cut, muscle bound marine then arrived on the scene and my simian hosts quieted down substantially. Neither mocking nor provoking them, I waited for GI Joe to go and crept awkwardly back atop my bike. As I peddled off, I overheard Boss Crow Jr. croak,

“Bye, pal”

I doubt it was as salutary as it seemed, but I think those fledglings will remember the old baboon who didn’t flinch even once, despite a lot of monkey business.

peace, dude! 

Conversations with Hawks and Doves

Hawks have become synonymous with conservatives, Doves with liberals. If they could speak, I think these birds would turn the tables:

We meet a lone hawk somewhere on a windswept mountain crag, like the ones those SUV’s in the commercials drive up and over.
Interviewer: So, you’re a hawk.

Hawk: fer sure, dude!

Interviewer: You don’t seem particularly hawkish..

Hawk: hey , we hawks got a bad rap. Like, I’m an environmentalist. Down with DDT! And, I’m totally into gun control. I’ve lost a lot of my friends to firearms. Like, I support the right to arm bears, dude!

Interviewer: but you eat meat.

Hawk: its totally organic, man!

Meet Archie and Edith Pigeon, a pair of doves on a big city campus in the middle of a flock in the middle of a student protest:

Interviewer: So, you’re a dove.

Archie: You gotta problem with that, pal?

Interviewer: Not at all. I just wanted your opinion on a couple of things.

Archie: Jeezus – another liberal harassing me. Just like that damn hawk. Youse guys whine about bein’ victims alla time but you know what your REAL problem is? You’re LOSERS! That’s why there’s more of us than you. Survival of the fittest, I always say.

Edith: buuut Aaarchie – what if they go extinct?

Archie: Sifle, Edith – STIFLE!

That’s the way it is…

Roger L. Sieloff

Spiders on my Glasses

As everyone attempts to speed past me on the thoroughfare, I am innundated by thousands of little American flags slapped to bumpers like so many highschool “hickeys”. These are the black and blue blemishes left on the necks of teenagers by their lovers as badges for “making out”, the latter term signiflying “foreplay” which may or may not have resulted in actual intercourse. Dasies don’t tell, but stickers tend to reveal certain facts. America is hopelessly in love with itself, at least here in Indiana. I find it curious that I have yet to see an Iraqui flag anywhere. Mexican flags ocassionally crop up, but they are not the same. One would think we would be as proud of ourselves as we are of the fledgling democracy we are fighting and dying to set up, nevermind the Iraqui casualties. I can almost imagine if I were to paste an impromptu little Iraqui flag on my car, my windshield would be in mortal danger of vigilante attack, the patriotic cretins perpetrating the crime convinced my affirmation of anything middle eastern a sure sign of terrorist support.

Sad.

Sadder yet is the latest affrount to good taste in the plethoura of little yellow crossed ribbons signifying support for our troops abroad, especially large ones proclaiming the relative of a bonified soldier, reminding me of the self congradulatory little stickers parents would paste to the back end of their SUV’s whenever their kid made the honor roll in school. I find little honor in death, especially if the life was wasted for nothing more than national pride. Ironic how the crossed ribbon was first a bold red badge of protest against AIDS, then a somewhat muted pink proclomation boo-hooing breast cancer. Now its a gereatric afterthought of a bad Toni Orlando pop tune. I find an underlying theme throughtout. Crossed ribbons are badges of failure. Failure to deal with the causes of a problem - instead mearly trying to manage the symptoms under the blasphamous pretext of a future cure. AIDS was an anathama due to its sexual connotations. As far as breast cancer is concerned, research reveals America is saturated in synthetic Estrogens, but this currently is as much a trade secret as the tobacco industry’s knowledge that El Producto was an addictive carcinogen long away and far ago. Iraq is nothing more than the red haired step child of America’s latest war of imperialism, nevermind the “what me worry?” propaganda.