I, for example, cannot imagine how the giant sauropods mated, except through the use of telekinesis.
I have two modest proposals for a solution to this conundrum.
Find a lake with a depth equal to a little under twice the height of a sauropod torso. (If you can’t find such a lake, get a sauropod to dig you one. Tell the sauropod it gets to mate when it’s finished.) Put a sauropod in the lake. Tell it to roll over. Don’t take no, or, more to the point, blank incomprehension, for an answer. Note that the long neck conveniently allows the sauropod to keep its head out of the water while lying on its back. Put a second sauropod, of the opposite sex, in the lake. Presuming a reasonable amount of buoyancy on the part of sauropods, it should now be possible to fire up “Swan Lake” and have them dock together.
2) Oral sex
A male sauropod could perform oral sex on itself then on a female, or, conversely, a female could attend to a male first and then herself. While this explanation, like the previous one, would show selection pressure for long necks, it’s less clear there would be all that much selection pressure for gender discrimination, and sauropods may have gone around having oral sex pretty much at random. Cue outrage about how Darwinists want to teach your kids about gay dinosaurs.
The source of the quote is the 1987 novel Daughter of the Bear King by Eleanor Arnason, which features an appendix providing an evolutionary explanation for why dinosaurs were magical. The novel is one of the odder SF/fantasy hybrids I’ve come across, and so far I can’t really convince myself that it works, though it is interesting. However, Arnason would go on to write A Woman of the Iron People and Ring of Swords, two of the best anthropological sf novels around.
It’s like that part of the movie where the shorebird finds an ATV on the beach, but doesn’t know it’s the possessed ATV — the one that used to be owned by a guy who, after his girlfriend dies of bird flu, summons a demon to take revenge on feathered things everywhere, but, when he changes his mind at the last second, doesn’t succeed in banishing the demon, but only confining it in the ATV, which goes on to kill him while he’s carrying all the down pillows out of his house to dispose of them — and so, even though everyone in the audience shouts “Don’t touch the ATV!”, the helpless shorebird has it’s little bird feet frozen to the steering wheel as the ATV careens through the town knocking over fruit carts until it crashes into a guy on a buffalo and catapults the bird into a dumpster full of chocolate skittles.
Or, at least, that’s what it was supposed to be. In the end, it turned out to be more like the guy’s girlfriend was allergic to down pillows and he tried to cure her with crystals, the shorebird was playing with the starter on the ATV while a ferret was asleep on the accelerator, there aren’t any fruit carts out this time of year, no buffalo have been sighted in the area since the end of the gold standard (don’t ask), and the dumpster was actually filled with some kind of biodegradable packing material. Other than a few ruffled feathers and a slightly punch-drunk ferret there was nothing to see.
Well, nothing, that is, which would require unlocking the cabinet of Lovecraftian adjectives in order to describe the dangers awaiting whatever tender sensibilities are still possessed by 3B readers after the past decade. There is, however, a Swedish women’s choir performing an a cappella version of Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights” in a video that simultaneously evokes an aerobics class, Esther Williams, and Castle Anthrax.
UPDATE: My cut and paste skills are getting rusty because my fingers are turning into giant smoked sausages from the portion sizes around here- videos make 10% more sense now END UPDATE
On the bumper-sticker front:
Saw my first version of SECEDE. For all of my critcism of our hypocritical and Medium Lobster-denigrated society, I must say I still found it enraging, so it was likely a win for the bumper and a loss for the bumpee. I can’t decide how ironic it was that it was on a Toyota Yaris and not the expected F350 king cab.
On the radio front:
This is a much more extensive section of the report. I hadn’t yet found the local version of the classic country format so that was something that only got tuned in on the way back from the closest sprawling, unzoned metropolis to Cloverhill Big T (the way down is usually Rick Dees’ Top 40 countdown, of which we only can get about 9 songs before losing it). So coming back one day we had an especially good run.
The first song I can’t identify but it sounded like late 50s/early 60s production and a really good voiced male singer. I think there was a Loretta Lynn in there.
Then Willie and Waylon, ubercoolly namechecking themselves. That is so outlaw. Love it.
Then, what I guess I would have expected would be illegal in a country song, irresistible hand claps. Juice Newton! Seriously, Belle and Sebastian should just twee this up an score an easy hipster B-side.
Followed by an all-time great, The King:
Little did I know I was just being tenderized for the body slam. This cowpie came through the windshield at 85 mph:
Moving on, because I spend more time in the car, I spend more time with the radio. I realize I could listen to something else, but I still hold out hope for that little charge of happiness when some mindless corporate radio programmer throws an interesting or nostalgic bone my way, instead od the mindless corporate shuffle on my iPod or some such. I only listen to CDs or music of my actual choosing on long drives because I can’t shake the engrained habit of hopefully scanning the dial for something unplanned and wonderful to come on, or sheepishly, something wonderfully terrible.
We have what I guess would be called a Top 40 station, that was 60% Gaga all summer, with 30% Taylor Swift. Very randomly for Big Texas Cinnamon Roll they have a midmorning DJ who is Australian (some listeners think she’s English).
We also have an Urban “Beat” station, but on weekend mornings they kick it Oaktown oldschool style (K knows of what I speak).
The majority of what we have that is tolerable enough to make it onto the presets, though, are various mix/magic/first name stations. Here are a few choice bits:
The Point: Big city station comes in all the way to Big T, I believe these cobags were the perpetrators of the Def Leppard/Erasure double shot. They bill themselves as 80s and more, but what they mean by 80s is 83-95, and it seems like they are mining Hysteria nonstop. “Animal”, “Rocket” and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” have all featured, and I think we have to assume “Armageddon It”, “Love Bites” and “Hysteria” make it in their mix, but no “Foolin” or “Photograph” because that might break their algorithm. It is this station that rode me both into and out of work with this next song, as if I had pressed pause for the intervening 9 hours.
Keep in mind that I view this sort of music as “Blue Girl” music, and I realize that I do this because BG is the next generation up from myself, and I don’t want to even consider the possibility that I could be on the edge of the demographic targeted by this station. I started listening to the radio at the age of 8, so I remember most of these songs from the first time around, but really would prefer that the alleged “horrible” “cheesiness”* of these songs is not aimed at any nascent or growing nostalgic reverie type behavior on my part. Therefore, I create an alternate universe where BG (no joke!) is listening to these songs and then posting about some awesome hijinks she got into with her cool friends and some crazy station wagon in an idealized midwestern town possibly involving harmless drug use or alcohol, things not present in my childhood or at least my memory.
Also all over this station and the next:
Also, lots and lots of Phil.
Jack: DJ-less automaton robot mix presents essentially a shuffle that goes beyond what you would expect from your Alice, Bob, Ted type stations in that it seems to be a true Top 40 mix of songs from 1975-2005, but skewing heavily 80s. This means they mine some unexpected corners. For example, everywhere else I’ve lived has whittled down this crap band’s radio contribution to “Working for the Weekend” but Jack pulls out:
Shortly followed by this one hit wonder. I allude to Sly Fox and “Let’s Go All the Way”, and if you listen to it at the right angle, in another dimension you might be convinced it could be a Love and Rockets song.
Possibly related, Pitchfork decides to relive their older brother’s childhood and reexamine Hall and Oates, because to remain cool in hipster narrative is always to connect with your older bro’s/sis’s pop records because everything in your life is a music policy position. Seriously, we have GOT our EYES on you sad sacks. UC prepare yourself for the cobaggery. If I can hack it with the arrival of project CODE NAME: SMALLTIME BEEF, you surely must be able to give to our readers. We are a mere month away.
There has been a recent plea shouted into the dark vacuum of the internet:
Also, what can the ombudscommittee do about this travesty appearing in my inbox
Junk Foods That Could Save Your Life
August 7, 2009
From Cheez Whiz to blue M&M’s, here are five dietary don’ts with surprising health virtues. More…
Fortunately for Kathleen, wagons of ombud (this is not what the MoH thinks it is) can hear just fine in a vacuum.
Kathleen is correct, immediate action is needed. I, Ombudwagon, will take this important responsibility onto myself. Much like the several months I spent deeply researching issues regarding esoteric pornography other stuff, I will now throw myself into dealing with the travesty that has assaulted Kathleen from this e-missive. I believe the action items for dealing with the aforementioned problem are:
1) Transfer the entire abomination to one Pinko Punko using a preferred method of e-transfer.
2) Someone temporarily un-fire one Pinko Punko until such time as he can post the e-transferred e-missive in its e-ntirety into Delish or Disgust. Re-termination (or even re-animation if the timing is good) can be immediately enacted upon completion of his duties.
3) Tapping into the power of the internets, we can then “crowdsource” the validity of the purported health claims for the various “junk foods.” Volunteers will extreme test each foodstuff for its potential health benefits and report back results to the central junk food bureau of standards and measures.
N.B. Experimentation is encouraged in maximizing potential benefits through food synergies. E.g. Would Cheez Whiz Blue M&M pie confer additive or synergistic benefits to the eater?
4) Once the data has been carefully vetted and all important conclusions have been made, we will then proceed to ignore the report because who actually reads D or D anyway? Well at least it isn’t Celebrity Dream Cameo…
My esteemed colleague Mickey Kaus was the first to break onto the scene with a stunning debut of Basque-Whackery- detailing the intricate and internecine workings of JournoList. Dangeral Professor exposed another group here. I am now here to share with you something even more contemptible. And equally horrific. This shadowy alternate internet is called “Facebook.” This exclusive club mirrors our public internet while providing an exclusive, secretive evironment for Scrabble, poking (some teenage sex thing) and probably tickle fights. This incredibly exclusive and selective club has almost 200 million members, and contrary to slanderous rumors, distortions and lies, not myself.
A source has revealed to me some goings on about this list. This source has risked their professional reputation for the sake of embarrassing some Facebook users. This source is a total bastard. I cannot confirm or deny whether this source is Jonathan Chait. On the advice of counsel I will say that this source is not Jonathan Chait.
Allow me so backstory.
Earlier in the week there appeared to be a popular uprising against Chuck Todd of NBC News.
So what do I do, Chuck? When we’re living on the streets, will that be enough? Or should we set ourselves on fire, too? Should I kill my cat and eat her? I don’t think I can sell my blood, because I take a couple of prescription medications. Perhaps I should sacrifice my prescription drug plan in exchange for being allowed to participate in this economic recovery! Whatever that means!
If Chuck Todd isn’t a dick, then Plato knows of now way to philosophize about the ideal dick.
Total dickbag on double coupon day for free dicks in a dick lottery where the is one number and one ticket, which he is holding in his prehensile dick-hand.
Where could BG have so carefully orchestrated her instant and well-planned defence of Chuck Todd?
I really started to wonder when I saw her blog. Screen shot below in case she inevitably decides to scrub the “evidence”-
This was indeed shocking. Not nearly as shocking as what my source claimed to reveal to me about the inner workings of “Facebook”- I haven’t verified the veracity of this document, but it would be irresponsible not to speculate.
Plant his orchids in Trader Joes Marcona Almonds with Rosemary and Sea Salt. Julienne for a delightful salad.
Cobloggers refuse to post?
Taunt them with Trader Joes Marcona Almonds with Rosemary and Sea Salt.
Blow savings on Trader Joes Marcona Almonds with Rosemary and Sea Salt, then sail into bankruptcy on a raft of pure flavor.
Are you and insidious ubervillain troubled by a pesky superspy?
Use Trader Joes Marcona Almonds with Rosemary and Sea Salt to trick suave double-o into a shark filled pool dip. James Bond would have ended with Dr. No My God They’re So Good I’m Going to Jump in This Shark Pool.
A nicely regressive across the board inflation amoeba-ing from fuel prices to food costs zeroes in on the regular folks of American society. Small business owners doing their best to provide a really good sandwich at a competitive price to the sandwich desiring working public. I shot the below pic at the University of Suck last month when a vendor there had to raise prices across the board. These price increases came after price increases on various add-ons (like bacon or cheese to a sandwich). Clearly those increases weren’t enough, so prices went up on sammies 9%. Add that to 25-40% increases in the price at the pump to I don’t know how much at the grocery store. I thought the image kind of summed up the inflationary web being spun around our economy.
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I expect this is not the last of this type of posting we’ll be seeing. To bad it is nothing but a tissue of lies. John McCain clues us in on the real problems faced by Sandwich-eating people everywhere. Islamofascism, didn’t we just know it. AS it turns out, I also have a cell phone of truth, that allows us to peak inside the insidious and hidden world of Islamofascist driven economics.
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To even discuss the existence of Sammieflation is to succour the Islamofascists. First they came for the ham sandwich, but I preferred roast beast, so I said nothing. Then they raised prices so I would complain, and insult the freedoms of our market economy, and in tricking me so, I did, hurting American morale. Finally, I couldn’t afford an exorbitant sandwich payday loan, with which I would stimulate our great economy while providing comfort for the beleaguered EZ check cashing convenience community, resulting in several kittens being slaughtered in the name Sushiitunni hegemony. The terrorists have won, because you didn’t take Islamofascism seriously.
Modern Ninja Home as I vastly prefer it to its downmarket competitor Ninja Digest. I was reading about items around the house and how they are secretly planted for dastardly, insidious ninja shenanigans. Take the Ped Egg, for example. Why, it’s just a regular ol’ foot file, that lets you grind down your dead, unwanted foot flesh. That’s just what it appears to be, to your limited perception. To a ninja, it is a device that allows them to collect your DNA and hose down various crime scenes with your Watson and Crick sauce, implicating you in their silent and undetectable crimes! Ninjas- WTF?!
I have a personal adage, I use when I am working with my clients. When I feel they are pursuing something that they shouldn’t, I make my best arguments against three times, in forceful but respectful fashion. If, after all of that (and I have documented history of telling them it was a bad […]
(Dick Cheney)...He's so evil even colostomy bags shit themseves at the mere thought of him. He makes circus clowns and department store Santas cry in terror. Every day his horoscope says the same thing: "destroy all everything.