The Philosphers of the Flux

Jamo's so soft he might fall through his own asshole

2006-01-05T16:00:00.000+02:00

Dear All the beautiful people of Friday Ramble land.

Happy new year, seasons greetings, all the other sweet shit and may you have many more beers and copious amounts of sex in 2006.

It came to my attention whilst skim reading 'the friday ramble' every now and again, WHEN IT WAS EMAILED TO ME, that Jamo loves ripping off the fuckin cool Knapster.
And he has every right to, here is why:

During 2005 Jamo became our international man of mystery, we didn't smell that fucker.
Amongst his many travels were his six months spent on a prawn farm in Australia, where he got immensely huge and ripped from the manual labour just like he said he would. Fuck you look awesome awesome Jamo...

The latter half of 2005 Jamo spent working in a Scottish pub, getting loads of cash and spending it travelling the whole of europe..Remember that memorable night you spent partying at that rave club in Spain my boy- you told me you just looooved jamming with that glowstick up your ass.

And once again in 2006 we're going to miss Jamo because by the time you all read this mail he'll be ripping up the slopes whilst working on a ski resort in France. When Dave puts his mind to something and says he's doing it there's just no stopping the man.

Jamo is also a man who is so impressive that you can't help but remember him. Even my grandfather (who's 80 and met Jamo only once over a year ago) asked me this christmas how my 'short little jewish friend' was doing. It took me about two seconds to click who he was talking about. It would have taken even less if he'd asked how my 'little baby gorilla mate with the seriously receding hairline' was doing?

Dave is probably the hardest man we know. This was once again demonstrated to me on a 'boys' holiday in the first week of December:
A boys week at the natal coast was arranged about four months prior to the trip. Of the ten days the boys spent partying it up, drinking many beers, scoring chicks (once again i ended up with the engaged one without knowing it-thus confirming it that in my opinion girls are skankier than guys and cheat more often), Jamo only spent 6.... Why do you ask?????
-did he contract bird flu?
-did both his arms get broken rendering him unable to hold a beer?
-did his leg get shot off and he had to leave the battlefield on a stretcher?
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Our hardest most sarcastic friend ditched his airline flight a few days later, which he had already paid for, and opted to spend 7 hours in a toyota with no aircon next to two other sweaty guys so he could spend 3 more days seeing his one and only love Tessa.
Who wouldn't ditch an awesome party with the boys to see a girl you hooked up with and scored twice.
The secret is out: now we all know how to play hard to get Jamo Style...

In my honest opinion, and many guys i've spoken with concur, Jamo must watch out- if he gets any softer he may just fall through his own asshole (if you want a visual representation of this ask 'that fuckin Harties' next time you see him- and i'll pay Laura 100 bucks if she does, honest!)...

Seeing i'm not going to the website with the 'Friday Ramble' on it and won't be scan reading it unless its emailed to me, Knappy has offered to proof read this and put it up for me... All the power is in Knappy's hands now..
Luv Kluytsie

Why does everbody hate me? By Satan

2005-11-24T16:11:00.000+02:00

I've tried, I really have, but nothing ever goes right for me. Everywhere I go, it's the same thing: people talking about me like I'm not even there, saying how terrible I am. Telling other people not to walk in my path. Urging that I be shunned and reviled, and commanding me in the name of all that is holy to get myself behind them. I swear, sometimes it seems like everybody thinks I'm the worst entity in creation.

I'm not that bad a guy, okay? I have my flaws, but I'll have you know I used to be considered quite the golden boy back in my day. Do you even know what the name Lucifer means? Depending on how it's translated, it can be "Bright And Shining One" or "Bringer Of Light," or all kinds of pretty names. I'm telling you, I was the fairest star in the firmament once. The only reason I even got kicked out Heaven in the first place is because I was more beautiful than God.

Yeah, well, now look at me. I can't even possess a lousy 10-year-old girl without some geezer in a white collar screaming "The power of Christ compels you!" in my face and insisting that I leave immediately. Look, I just want to connect with a human being for a little while! Levitate a few beds, spin a couple necks around, have some deep, throaty laughs. Is that so wrong? Everybody treats me like some kind of lowlife just because I'm the symbolic embodiment of all the evil in the universe.

Have you heard the things they call me? I can take a good-natured ribbing as much as the next guy, but some of these names are just so mean. Do you have any idea how it feels to be called the "Lord Of Lies"? Ouch. Look, I may be mankind's greatest fears and weaknesses made flesh, but my feelings can get hurt just like anybody else's. "Prince Of Darkness"? How would you feel if everybody called you "The Defiler," or "The Despoiler," or "The Unclean One"? It's not my fault that my terrifying visage erupts into suppurating boils when exposed to the holy light of truth and righteousness. It's hideous enough without people always needing to rub it in.

I'll bet I'm the most despised and hated being in the whole wide world. I even wrote a poem about it once in my creative-writing class, but when I read it out loud, everybody just laughed at me. I only took that class to make friends, but even the biggest dorks there reacted to my very presence with visceral repulsion. I'm telling you, I felt like the lowest of the low. The only way I could get anyone to talk to me was by promising this one guy I'd make his stupid legal thrillers into bestsellers in exchange for his immortal soul. Now he's had a string of hit movie adaptations and I'll bet I don't even hear word one from him until he shows up mewling and begging at the gateway to the underworld.

Oh sure, there are the occasional few who want to be my acolytes, but come on. I mean, have you seen these people? They're plain weird. Sure, they say that the reason they're into me is because they're rejecting society's small-minded notions of petty morality and embracing a world where "do as thou wilt" shall be the whole of the law, but it's pretty obvious that they're really just mad that nobody else in the corporeal realm wants anything to do with them.

I was sort of excited by the ones from the Norwegian black metal scene at first, though. I thought, "Finally, some worshippers who, if nothing else, at least have the balls to burn down a 900-year-old church." Some of them even had girlfriends. But that wore off pretty quick after I caught a few shows. For people who've supposedly sold their souls to the devil, these guys couldn't put together a tune for shit. I mean, I sure as hell didn't trade them any guitar skills down at the crossroads—or whatever the hell the Norwegian folklore equivalent would be—and from the sound of their records, nobody else did either. Let's just admit it—black metal is lame.

And while we're on the subject of my mortal followers, don't believe a word you hear about all these so-called "spawn of Satan"—that phrase gets thrown around quite a bit, but believe you me, most women won't even come near me. I guess I've never really known how to show affection. But I have needs too, you know! I just wish I could meet a nice virgin half-goat woman who totally gets me. But every time I get involved with a receptacle for my seed, it always ends badly.

The only person who understands me is my friend Gene. Sure, he knows I'm a mythical representation of all the tragic and self-defeating fallibility inherent in the human condition, but he doesn't judge me for it. Lately though, I hardly ever get to see him. Ever since he settled down, he's spending more and more time with his wife and kid. I know he's busy, but I miss him. He was an okay enough guy... not quite evil enough for my tastes, maybe, but an okay guy all the same.

I amaze myself

2005-11-24T15:10:00.000+02:00

Sometimes one is filled with an inexplicably sense of gratitude that one is not David Kenneth Alan Jamieson. That guy, man alive. Right, so, since it is Thursday, a day before what will be an ‘eventful’ weekend, I have decided to use my literary incompetence in an attempt to entertain. My objective:

"The prime motive of a tale-teller is to try his hand at a really long story that would hold the attention of readers, amuse them, delight them, and at times maybe excite them or deeply move them."

I cannot promise the long part of the above quote, but as for the rest, we shall see, and you shall all be privy to whether I succeed or not. To be a success, we often think that we must impress others. This is where I do not care. I do not care if I impress you. I do not care. I am writing this for myself. So there. I know that I am a success.

"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

Dwell on the above thought for 5 seconds, and then move on. If you do not, you will go crazy. Like Jamo is going to be on Saturday afternoon. All crazy eyes. In fact, if Jamo was a Red Indian, his code name would be Crazy Eyes, or Little Man. I can’t be sure which one, just I know that he would make a killer Red Indian. Imagine old Crazy Eyes stalking a buffalo?! The poor thing would have no chance.

Right, so, Gump is getting lucky tonight. Poor Tanya. She is going to be attacked. Like Rowan attacked the 94.7. Hard. Straight. No time to come up for air. Did you know that Nicole Smyth actually doesn’t like Rowan? She is being paid by Roger to pretend to be his girlfriend. Ro hasn’t even realised this yet. Hate to be the one to break this to you buddy, but, umm, she prefers Ricky Martin…

“Aaah, Ricky Martin: the man with the “shakey bom bom”, the adoration of gay men everywhere and the Jason Priestly hair. What more could a guy aspire to? I don’t know what Ricky’s deal is, but in spite of it all, I actually find him mostly harmless. I’d rather not actually have to find him, but you get where I’m coming from. Not sure I get where he’s coming from, mind you…shit, fuck it. Enough with the stupid ambiguities. Ricky Martin’s a tool.”

Aaah, cameltoe. Hobbo digs it, Chip digs it, Shmoe hates it. But read this:

“Cameltoe is a slang term for the appearance of a crease between a woman’s labia majora in the fabric of clothing over the genital region (mons pubis), resulting from a snug fitting garment. Technically, there must be a visible crease between the lips of the vulva, although sometimes a mere visible bulging of the mons pubis is referred to as a cameltoe.”

I know that Munners is cringing right now, but that’s what you get for leading Rowan on like that…

“Suck my ass, Chuck Norris. Ice my cup cakes, Vin Diesel. The hardest man in the world is actually Jean-Claude Van Damme. And you don’t have to take my word for it!”

Jamo said last night that he wanted to popularise our very own Hoff, the impregnable Steve Hofmeyer. I say do it. Make it happen my boy.

ENOUGH!!! Will this day never end!? Captain’s Log, entry 47683: The maggots of the office are stirring again. The vultures need to be exterminated. The time has come. Whoever hears this report in the future, know that it had to be done. No two ways about it…

"There are many powers in the world, for good or for evil. Some are greater than I am. Against some I have not yet been measured. But my time is coming."

Man. I need a holiday.

"You are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.”

Frederick Returns from a Sabbatical

2005-11-01T08:41:00.000+02:00

Hobbo:
Frederick sat back down at his desk, everything was in order. He was excited, yet at the same time anxious. What would become of him after Esmeralda found out what he had planned? A cunning plan, one that would either win the heart of his one and only love, or lose it forever. His Celine Dion tape finished with a click. He could now hear his heart beating to the rhythm of the early morning birds chirping beyond his balcony.
As he sat, his reflection visible in the window adjacent to his desk, Frederick was deep in thought. He could see his chest heaving beneath his jumper - his most valued possession - a jumper that he had been given by his late Science Professor. Frederick’s thoughts flew back in time, back to the beginning of his third semester when the two of them had been happy, working feverishly on the project…nothing could go wrong. Frederick smiled and his pulse calmed. He unclenched his fists and as he stared at himself in the reflection of the window, he realised that he not only had the same exceptional mental capacity as his friend and Professor, but he almost looked almost identical. He just had to get rid of the braces.
The memories started seeping in, slowly at first but then like a torrent of water gushing through a crack with tremendous velocity. He remembered how close his Professor was to discovering the truth when the magnitude of his findings threw him into oblivion and eventually over the edge, into insanity. Frederick remembered how, having made a break-through in the library, he had stumbled into the science faculty late one night. As he made his way down the stairs leading to his lab he had heard the sound of a million teeth ripping into fresh flesh. The sound was terrible…the crunching of bone, the tearing of tissue…it was almost as bad as a Metallica song, he thought.
As he entered his lab, Fredrick was hit by a black cloud of dizziness that drained the life out of his legs and left him in a crumpled heap behind his cordless 300 watt infrared enabled toast machine. He didn’t know how long he was out for but when he awoke, the rats were still chewing. Frederick remembered how he had eventually pulled his Professor from the cage, and how he had tried to revive him but was too late. It was too far gone. The savages had already taken both legs, blood spurting from the foot long spouts below his stomach. His intestines were being ripped from within…the stench…God…the stench! Frederick remembered the convulsions pumping up through his stomach, through his throat and violently spewing all over the rats. The mixture of his insides and the blood repulsed him but for some unknown reason, gave him a warm fuzzy feeling inside, the same feeling kind of feeling that he got when his mother had caught him with the neighbours jack russel. The texture of the intermingled fluid seemed appealing to him. It was beautiful. Frederick reached for a jar so that he could collect a sample and study it later. The killer rats seemed to bask in the pool, swimming around in unison like swans on a lake, some kind of sick victory parade. Realising it was too late Frederick pulled himself together and took a step back to think. That was all he was good at…thinking. There was nothing he could have done to save his friend so he abandoned him…threw him back to the ravishing creatures. He sat at his Professor’s side for the entire night, staring in awe, until eventually the rats had polished off each and every ounce of flesh, making the remaining bones glisten in the moonlight. To this day Frederick could still smell the disgusting odour of his Professor’s demise in the lab. But Frederick liked the smell…he couldn’t work without it. And he couldn’t work without the remains of his Professor and greatest friend looking over him, swinging on the curtain railing from the depths of his lab.
Frederick snapped out of it and jumped as he heard a knock on the door. An hour had passed and he was late for his engagement. He hoped for his sake that Esmeralda hadn’t already left. What would he do then? His plan destroyed. His mind raced…

Skinny to Fat... the Story of Neil and Edgar Burdock

2005-10-28T12:10:00.000+02:00

The year was 1982. The place – Dublin, Ireland. An obese woman covered in reptilian like scales screams and contorts in a bed barely big enough to house her gargantuan tail. 21 hours of labour and 6 litres of amniotic fluid later, a small (not for long, as we shall see later) baby is born. His eyes are as blue as blue bottles, his waist still able to fit into a 32 jean pant, his entire life before him to make his parents proud.

By age 2 he was whisked off to sunny South Africa. His dad was given a job and so the family was relocated. Not because he was well educated (what degree?) but because he was white. Remember, back then things were different… right somehow. The boy continued to grow…. And grow.

Primary school came easily to this little lad. The taunts about his pale skin and emaciated physique bounced off him like bowling balls off his soon to be friends mom, known, at this early stage of her career, only as ‘the brothel owner’- Later she would become – Queen Lorraine Bredin, Whore of Whores.

Little Neil turned 12, and the overwhelming nerd he was during primary school came to its maturity when he was made prefect and head of. His reptilian mother was so proud. Things were good for the Burdock family… but things change, as they so often do.

High school is the point where this skinny boys life turns to misery. Standard six begins with his first cigarette, closely followed (4 min 30 seconds later) by his first marijuana joint. Six months later his first LSD cap is taken, closely followed (1 week later) by his first ecstasy tablet. Throw in alcohol and benzene and I think what we had was a fire hazard so extreme it makes the twin towers disaster look like something out of The Jungle Book.

And so it went, for 3 years this boy becoming man flew through drink and drugs like there was no tomorrow, slowly gaining weight, on his way to becoming the sif we know today. Then the mammoth weight gain was stopped dead in its tracks. Neil suffered a broken jaw in an incident to this day his parents still think was a ‘fall’. This resulted in a jaw wiring, which saw his pasty body wither away again, back to the unsightly mess it was 10 years before. However, as this story has foretold, nothing lasts forever. The wires were cut and the boy was allowed to drink again.

2 more years of chaos and 4 written off cars later, his parents pride of the past had been long replaced by disgust for their wretched son, their Damien. For months during his final year they toiled over what they should do to change their sons ways, to make him a man. They knew the best thing would be to send him away from Johannesburg, with all its influences. But where, where could he go where he wouldn’t drink so much, where he would study hard and become everything they wanted him to be? Only one place came to mind – Rhodes University.

Another turning point in our protagonists story. He arrived at Rhodes a modest 76kg. For a person of 6 ft that wasn’t so bad. Not exactly manly, but not the monsters (yes, plural) he was to become. Fuelled by friends in a ghastly hovel known as Adamson, the drinking spiralled out of control as did Neil’s weight. With the continuous drinking, res food and lack of exercise, his body expanded at a record pace. Within a year the once thin, pasty fuck became large, too large, beyond control and repair. His body was like Einstein’s universe, always expanding, much to his friend’s delight. The jokes began, slowly at first, but gaining in complexity and spite as quickly as his waistline gained in girth. But, as they had in the past, the taunts meant little to Neil and nothing could curb this mans enthusiasm for the good life… until his mother, now in her fifties and shedding her skin up to twice a day, called him fat infront of all his peers. This was the final straw.

Neil decided to get his life together. He started jogging and cycling. Or should I say, he jogged, once, and cycled, once. It seemed this mans lazyness was overpowering. There was no escape.

By the time the boy left Rhodes, he was content with his weight, no longer waking up in cold sweats on a nightly basis wondering how he’d wasted his life, and he was only 22. He decided to move to London and make it as computer programmer (fat, pale and programming, life doesn’t get better than this). With his past behind him (where else could it be), he thought the future looked bright. But he forgot one thing – Guinness flows from the taps in this City.

He consumed mass amounts of this ale. Never holding back, never saying no. The Ireland he left so many years ago was still in his blood, well it was back in his blood now. And so the belly known only as Ed awoke, hungry and in need of some major life changes. He grew, and grew and grew, becoming the not so little brother Neil had never wanted, and within one month Neil had amassed another 10kg to his already tragic form. 98kg. When would it stop….

This is a tale that has no end. It will be told for generations to all as a bogey man story. ‘Eat your vegetables or you’ll turn out like Neil and Ed’. Neil/Ed – separate entities, one gigantic body – each one struggling for control in a harsh world.

Good night all. Sleep tight, don’t let the humiliation bite.

a story in the making by JakeFrankDogg

2005-10-28T12:08:00.000+02:00

A story in the making, a cripple without legs? What’s the purpose of all this crying? There is no one to defend. If everyone would get the point, perfect to every extreme. What would all the clouds do? Make rain? The beginning and the end are irreversible, the planet full of dreams. Please would someone call me? I am Myself, master of destiny and the pinnacle of all existence.

A state of mind, a thought, consciousness in its truest form. The moment when obscurity transforms into Light, as clear as cold water and just as refreshing.

Yesterday evening I went for a run, taking a calculated guess that it would not rain hard and that it would not become a storm. The clouds were light and wispy, and the air was warm. I got about 600m down the road when it started to drizzle. Then it started to rain, and rain harder, and finally, hail. Not bad hail, just small and fast, and painful enough to make me feel really alive. I didn’t continue my run for long, but while I headed home, there was lightening all around me, thunder forcing itself into my ear, taking advantage of any gaps left by the rain drops themselves. My feet were squelching in muddy shoes, my t-shirt sticking to my body, and a general ‘I am so not happy right now’ feeling going down. However, I was happy. I was alive, breathing, smelling, hearing, tasting, and feeling… feeling alive.

Okay. Now that the random soppy shite is out of the way, I can move onto something far more exciting. Robert scratched his head. He wondered if he really did look like the Ape the cartoonist had depicted him as. He despised those cockroaches that unrelentlessly portrayed him as a bad person. He was fed up with everything. His ambitious followers would stab him in the back the minute he turned it on them. He had to be very careful to pander to their needs, while at the same time ensuring that he was the primary beneficiary in any activities undertaken. He was an evil man. A man with the ability to cast off guilt as a simple fisherman casts a net off his Dow. A sort of malevolence had long ago replaced his sense of pride, although he didn’t realise it or acknowledge it to anyone who pointed it out to him. He had become a grumpy old man (I do love a good euphemism). Any attempt to criticise was taken as an attack on self, and punished with a swiftness and severity few were willing to endure.

I wonder what it is like having millions of people thinking you are a vile person? I imagine, given the correct personality type, it would be easy to say ‘so many people hate me already, what is another 2 million or so?’ You might as well set up your family for success, make them lots of money and give them powerful friends. When you go, you go with the knowledge that no one can punish the other members of your family for your crimes. So they will be happy in the knowledge that their daddy worked hard for their money. What better way to show how appreciative you are of Bob’s hard work than to go buy a Ferrari or Yacht or something extravagant that you have no idea what to do with, but you saw on the pages of Fortune Magazines ‘500’ edition.

Do you think that in years to come, people will look back and think ‘how was it possible for the rest of the world to let Bush and America interfere in a sovereign state on the notion that they might be in the early stages of nuclear weapon development programs?’ Do you think they will ask: ‘was the American public so unquestioning that when the oil price went to $60 a barrel, they just accepted that it was because there was less oil than a year ago?’ Will they look back and say: ‘how was it possible for a guy to be so short and fast? How could the Knappy eat so much chicken? And why, oh why was the Hobbo guy such a praggie-prag?’

A good friend of mine once said ‘no idea’. And I believed him.

Another friend once told me I was the worst joke teller in the world. I also believed him, but I want you to imagine me delivering these pearlers:

“If you think that's good, wait till you see the floor show – which will no doubt be more outrageous than the incredibly outrageous thing that just preceded it!”

"Look, I'm still a dog. Just because I speak and hang out at bars doesn't mean I can't feverishly lick the sweat from my own balls."

"Asthma? But I thought you said you would run away with me!"

"What pâté? This is my stool sample."

Then the doctor says, "OK, now it's MY turn to cough!"

That's when President Bush starts shouting, "Filibuster me harder, Senator Fuckhorse!"

"Then the fat cannibal turns to the skinny one and goes, "I prefer white meat, but the rosemary was an inspired addition to the recipe."

And the pigeon was like, "Hey man, don't be getting' all up in my guano!"

And so the drunk shouts, "Laugh at me if you want, but let me remind you that you're all overgrown, emotionally stunted adolescents who can't make an informed, adult decision or even honestly face the wasteland of your pathetic life without filling your eyeballs with enough beer and liquor as to distort these painful facts."

When I said, "tea bag," I meant like the hot, invigorating beverage!

Courtesy of http://www.chickenhead.com/bottom50/punchlines.asp

Some of my favourite word:
Sublime
Lithe
Grotesque
Statuesque
Populate
Morbid (curiosity)
Forbidden
Lengthy
Endurance
Wicked
Sock
Weasel
Supreme
Brother
Field
Slaughter
Slender
Arctic
Crinkle
Shimmer
Insane
Fart
Slippery
Gradient
Begin

Hello.

So this weekend is going to be pretty hectic then. I was wondering if perhaps I should leave my dignity and self-respect at home when I go out on Saturday. That way, I won’t have it in the first place to lose. I was looking at Knappy the other day, and I thought ‘man that guy likes beer’. And you know what? That is true. It does like beer.

The topic of this next paragraph is:

‘how traffic lights quietly dominate the earth: they're the ones in control’

Think about it. They have the ultimate power. Humans have given it to them, but at the moment they have the power. Most of the time they chose not to use it, but every now and hen, when you least expect it, or least need it, they will throw a spanner into the works. When was the last time you really needed to get somewhere by a certain time? Of course every robot along the way stopped you and made you late. The more you stress, the more they can feel your presence, and the longer they remain red. Even if there is no other traffic. It’s just you sitting, waiting for the non-existent cars to cross the intersection, forever waiting. When you are really late and need to actually make up time, or you have a very important appointment to keep, then things really get bad. The traffic lights sense you are approaching from kilometers away, and start to build up traffic. By the time you get there, there is a 900m long queue. The only allow one or two cars to get though at a time, until you are close enough to see what trickery they are using. Then suddenly, when you are 8 cars from the front of the queue, the light will let all seven in front of you go, but force you to be a good person and stop for the (by then) red light.

If you need to get to an important presentation, or some other important event (like the birth of your first child), traffic lights really get nasty. They will in fact turn themselves off. And have you ever noticed how along a certain route, all the lights are off. This is because they communicate, and prepare for your arrival. No one these days knows how to treat broken lights, so everyone just drives, causing accidents, which further log the roads. You are doomed. You might as well go home and sleep. The lights will stop at nothing to cause you to be painfully late. You will miss the presentation (or your child’s birth), you will not get a promotion (or any action for the rest of you marriage) and you will live like a dog in a kennel for the rest of your life (and you will live like a dog in a kennel for the rest of your life).

Viva le Traffic Light. Viva!

“Here's a toast to all those who hear me all to well.Here's to the night we felt alive.Here's to the tears you knew you'd cry.Here's to goodbye tomorrow's going to come to soon.”

Chickenhead

2005-10-28T11:53:00.000+02:00

One of the funniest sites we've ever seen. Follow the links to the related pages, they are also brilliant.

www.chickenhead.com

the Frederick Saga Continues...

2005-10-14T08:40:00.000+02:00

Chopper:

Fred woke with a start. No sound and no light. Where was he? In the pitch black he wondered if he had just sprung into existance. A figment of the imagination of a far off stranger. Someone cruel and twisted, forcing his hand to do the things he knew were wrong but enjoyed so. "Give me the world" he thought as if speaking to his stranger. A cricket began to chirp and a river began flow outside in a creek that was now old. Slowly he became aware of his body; neck became back which inturn stretched into legs. His arms grew along his desk and sprouted fingers.Fred felt alive and lifting his head from the desk he reached for the lamp and switched it on. His room lit with a cold unnatural light and he smiled. Home.

Standing up he stretched his hands over his head and leaned back into a giant yawn. He checked his watch, 4 am, plenty of time before the plan must be executed.Gone were the rat experiments. They were a thing of the past, a preparation for what he knew he must do now. Fate had finally been kind, a human subject had bee dangled in front of him and he knew that it was now time to act. The room was cold but Fred didn't notice, his mind was bent on the task ahead. Working in such a trance he was oblivious to the world outside, a world that was now beginning to stir.

First came the crickets, they inturn woke the birds whose song filtered through the blinds into the warm confines of Esmeralda's private sanctuary. She felt herself begin; her heart woke her head which in turn spread a warmth throughout her body and she was happy, inextricably happy. Today was the day that she had been waiting for. Her first date with the boy of her dreams. Frederick von Swinehund.

Mrs B's 2 cents

2005-10-06T14:02:00.000+02:00

MRS B
We are all but recent leaves on the same old tree of life and if this lifehas adapted itself to new functions and conditions, it uses the same oldbasic principles over and over again. There is no real difference betweenthe grass and the man who mows it. Now if we take the grass as time, and theman mowing it as human perception, what does that mean about mans perceptionof time? Does it mean that man perceives that he in fact controls time onsome level and can shorten it at will? Or does it mean that man is in factafraid of time an must regularly try to maintain some form of control overit? Now about this cat, what if we say for example ran over the cat with thelawnmower, what would that mean?

Still More Pseudo

2005-10-06T14:00:00.000+02:00

THE KING PRAWN
Not only that, but it is also supposed to prove that any object or being is itself subject to its relativity to any other object or being. For example, once the lid has been put onto the box, who is to say that the cat doesn’t exist? It could be in one of several states (live, dead or not exist). We could argue that it is in all of these states at once until such time as we open the lid and observe its actual state.

More Pseudo

2005-10-06T13:59:00.000+02:00

JAKEFRANKDOGG
well, we know that if we put a cat into a box, and close the lid, the cat will be in there. But without being able to see the cat, we have no idea where it is in the box. To the observer, the cat might as well (in fact it might) not exist. Once the box is opened, and the cat is visible, we can wee that in fact it does exist and its position within the box. Given our position in time and space, without having an external point of reference, it is impossible to tell where we are in a given multidimensional plane.

Pseudo-Intellectualism is Fun (part 3)

2005-10-06T13:58:00.000+02:00

THE KING PRAWN
That is my point. Time is intangible to us because it is beyond our scope of definition. What I’m saying, is that just because we can’t measure something, we can’t rule it out of existence. We can see the effects of time. Your computer screen is in a particular position in space and time. You could move it to another position. The fact that, relative to you, there is only one screen at any point proves space and time exists. Because, if there was no time, there would be two screens in front of you (actually an infinite number, to account for the movement). So time does exist as a human perception. It is directly unquantifiable and cannot be defined, but we can prove that it exists. I think. Insert some theory about a cat in a box here.

Pseudo-Intellectualism is Fun (Part 2)

2005-10-06T13:53:00.000+02:00

JAKEFRANKDOGG
Of course The KING PRAWN is correct and the KNAPPY is incorrect. Time does exist. it is the Human perception of time (as a two dimensional line - future, present, past) that the knapton is refering to. So the Knapton could argue that his definition of flux is accurate for any human subject. and seeing that he was not trying to define flux for dogs, he is accurate. The true definition of flux would be hard to come by, considering that the space-time continuum is in more than three dimensions. thus, to our feeble brains, everything is happening everywhere at the same time, and nothing is everything and nothing (I mean absolute nothing - no light, dark, vacuum, pressure; no space, particles (atoms, electrons or quarks) exists (or does no exist I suppose) at some point in space time.

I think its best to stick to definitions we can define, rather than the ones we can't.

Pseudo-Intellectualism is Fun

2005-10-06T13:51:00.000+02:00

THE KING PRAWN
I’ve been thinking about this. Your hypothesis is interesting but not sound. You make the assumption that time does not exist. But it does. It may not be tangible, but it is measurable. You are correct measuring it as a function of other things. However, it can be measured as a function of any range of things. For example, the time for an atom to move from one point to the next. How can you say that it is only a function of our humanity? First you have to define humanity and time immovable within that definition for your hypothesis to hold true. Then you also have to somehow prove that everything else is in turn a function of humanity. Just a thought. Use it, don’t use it.

What is the Flux?

2005-10-06T10:25:00.000+02:00

Sometimes Knappy is one of the most profound people one could hope to meet. Philosophising succinctly with insightfulness. Other times he just defiles my bathroom. Here a case of the former:--

"For those of you who are not sure of what FLUX is, here we go:

The rate of flow per unit area of some quantity, such as the flux of cosmic rays or the flux of particles in the solar wind.Thus the flux of life is the rate at which our mind, body and soul journeys through time. We all experience things during life (one might say that our minds grow in 'units' with each new experience), hence it can be concluded that the flux of life is how long it takes for a'unit' of life to be experienced. But what is a unit of life? The answer to that question drifts further away the closer the answer appears to be. Let us just say that each new experience is a 'unit'. We believe that the time to experience these new 'units' varies drastically, but in essence each new 'unit' always takes the same timeto materialise. This is because time is merely a function of our humanity, and does not exist. Hence the flux of life is constant. It is always around us. We are swimming in the flux of life.

For those that are brave enough to venture into that dark abyss, I am open to ideas and thoughts on flux."

Ryan J. 05 / 10 / 2005

Welcome People of the Flux

2005-09-29T20:25:00.000+02:00

To quote an honourable friend of mine
"If you admire the form of the male athlete, does that make you gay?" - Rumbone 2002

Frederick von Swinehund

2005-09-29T12:08:00.000+02:00

Ro
As Frederick leaned fervently out of the window to see who was making the noises outside, he became aware of the dust on the windowsill and thought to himself 'I must make sure I do a thorough dusting before I go to the library'. He looked around outside, below the window he was leaning out of. He couldn't see anyone, but heard that the noises were coming from around the corner of his res'. 'Man, how do those guys play so much and still make the grade when it comes to exams?' he mumbled to himself.

He returned to his desk, and sat, staring at the small rat he had tied down. It lay on it back, with its legs held back by the thread Frederick had wound around them. The rat made a barely audible squealing noise. It was obviously weak from the preceding weeks of experimentation. Frederick got up quickly and left the room. He was suddenly in an agitated state. No one was in the corridor or the Common room. He ran outside and past the noisemakers without anyone noticing him.

David J. (don’t think I’ve written that since primary school)
Not that anyone ever noticed him. They might see him, even talk to him, but they never really noticed him. As he scuttled about the campus gardens and towards the Science Faculty he thought about how he was like the mouse. People may be aware that he was there. They might poke and prod but they didn’t take any notice of the specimen’s point of view. Never had they thought of him as anything other than an element to manipulate in the grand experiment of life. When they teased and mocked him, it was only to gauge his reaction and draw pleasure from their control over it.

And as he had done so often in the past year, he pictured his glory moment: The moment when all those to whom he had been nothing but a subservient little wretch would be forced to acknowledge the glory that was Frederick von Swinehund. He imagined that moment’s sweetness and scuttled on.

He had by now entered the great old building. There was no one around and he hurried down some stairs and into his very own dank little underworld. He pulled on the tawdry lab-coat and settled down.

The Red Planet
The stench was putrid, as it always was down in his dingy hole. His lab-coat was a pale yellow, and had been nibbled at by rats at the frays. Pulling on his lab-coat actually made him gag, every time. But after five minutes of intense intoxication, his nostrils became used to the disgusting aroma and he felt comfortable.

But during those 5 minutes of adjustment, he was always on edge. He liked the way that his thoughts turned terribly homicidal. For a fleeting moment he caught a glint of light reflect off the bones in the corner. “You should never have ventured down here,” he thought aloud to himself. That day was always in the back of his mind.

His experiment was almost ready. Frederick was starting to get excited. He had been waiting for this moment for so long, some might even say his whole life. Since no-one ever took notice of Frederick, Frederick thought that he would give them a helping hand. Everything was in place, with only a few finishing touches needed before it would be complete. Then, a new chapter in Frederick’s life would dawn.

He suddenly got agitated again, and felt extremely claustrophobic. He ripped off the lab-coat and dashed up the stairs, not thinking that someone might see him exit his cave. He got to the top of the stairs, and ran straight into a large figure.

The Old Rumbone:

Now when Frederick thought that he was alone in the universe, little did he realise that like a far off distant planet burning red with desire orbited the figure of Esmeralda. It was into this bespectacled maiden that Frederick stumbled, setting her heart a flutter with passion. Speechless and flustered, Frederick bumbled to be chivalrous and bent to help pick up her books and files. ‘Ugh!’ he thought, ‘She highlights her notes.’ Technicolour pink and green fluorescent blobs gleamed amongst daisies and cupid hearts shot through with arrows…It was at that moment when he thought he saw the scrawl of familiar letters and almost immediately as if the planets had collided realized he was not alone. So much darkness in his soul burst into light and possibility. Of course Esmeralda, who at this moment was cursing herself for such a terrible slip up, muttered apologies and desperately wanted to somewhere, anywhere else. Agitated and confused by tumultuous feelings he could not describe Frederick wondered what to say.

“I have braces too.”

“I like chocolate milk,” replied Esmeralda.

She scuttled off breathless. Frederick saw his destiny unfold before him, expanding into a vision of glory. Only slight modifications to his experiment were needed. Back in his room it was to this scheme he applied himself thoughtfully as he towered over the trembling rat. The sounds of Manilow floated across the room. It calmed him and drowned out the world. So he could think and imagine.
I remember all my life raining down as cold as ice.
Shadows of a man, a face through a window cryin' in the night,
the night goes into Morning just another day;
happy people pass my way.
Looking in their eyes, I see a memory I never realized
how happy you made me.
Oh Mandy well,
you came and you gave without taking,
but I sent you away.
Oh, Mandy well,
you kissed me and stopped me from shaking,
and I need you today. Oh, Mandy!