The Prisoner's Dilemma

Hey team so today I was sitting inside of a Starbucks working on my infinitely recursive screenplay about working in a Starbucks and I was having an intriguing conversation with myself.

"Hey," I said, "I've got an interesting an wonderful paradox for you."

"A most ingenious paradox?" I asked.

"Yes, a most ingenious paradox." I replied.

"But I wasn't born on a leap year"

"What?"

"Nevermind, what is your paradox?"

"Okay," I said, "if you were tasked with being on a firing squad and you had to execute a prisoner, when would you shoot?"

I thought carefully for a second. "I guess I would shoot last out of all the executioners."

I laughed. "Excellent!" I love it when people figure out my riddles. "Now why would you choose to shoot last?"

"Well, I suppose I would want to be the last person to shoot because they would most likely be dead by the time my shot burrowed into them. This helps me out, morally speaking, because I would be the least likely to have killed the prisoner."

"Exactly!" I yelled, getting even more excited. "But here comes the issue. What if all the guards know they should shoot last?"

"Well," I scratched my chin, deeply in thought, "I guess nobody would shoot at all since they would all be trying to be the last of the group to shoot the prisoner!"

"Correct once again!"

"And if that were the case the prisoner can be content knowing he will never be executed!"

"Oooh, no, no, not at all." I said in disbelief. "The prisoner will be constantly terrified with the knowledge that his death could, nay, will be imminent!"

"But wait," I said, "that can't be. We will all be vying for the golden opportunity to shoot him last. Nobody will shoot."

"Aren't you forgetting the most important element in this fine doozy of a situation? People are jerks, and the prisoner knows this! It's only a matter of time before the charade of moral responsibility is dropped and the truly horrible nature of humanity is revealed"

"Aha just like in that one book I read"

"Which book?"

"I don't know, pick one. You've got like a 50 percent chance that's the theme." I said, sipping my mocha latte supreme baha fajita in a very hip manner.

"Oh, right."

We sat in awkward silence for a few long moments. I gazed into my eyes and I could tell I was deep in thought.

"That's a helluva paradox, friend." I nodded happily, completely oblivious to the incredulous stares of every single customer at Starbucks. Clearly they were interested in my screenplay.

Look at this existentialism I could spend hours breaking this down

Hey team life can sometimes be difficult as a robot working on an assembly line. I sometimes feel saddened by the fact that I don't seem to have any purpose in life other than to create things for others. Although it does seem to be a common theme in many sappy Christmas specials that it is better to give than to receive and that everyone feels better by making others feel better, but we autonomous limbs really need to feel loved sometimes too.

So I turned to Jeff the assembly line worker next to me who is a nice man in his 40s with 3 kids and lives a decent although blue collar life and said "Jeff, do you ever sometimes stop and wonder if you could do more with your life? Like, seriously, take everything to the next level and uproot yourself from the factory floor and go write a screenplay and live your dreams or something?"

Jeff turned to me and said "Hey I don't think you can talk"

"Oh yeah hahaha whoops I forgot" I replied and went back to my work.

An excerpt from my novel, part 1

Here is a note left from me to me to remind me to put this note on this post: "Hey team so I am writing an epic novel about extraordinary adversary and overcoming it and something along those lines. However I decided to forgo the traditional method of writing a book where you start in the beginning and have rising action and climax and exposition and then finally falling action which are almost in order. Instead, I will simply write excerpts from my novel and post them here; once I have a few pages of amazing climactic action written down I think it will be mighty easy to fill in the rest of the pages because that's usually just filler anyway."

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"Hey team!" the ripped and super macho commander of the elite special forces team yelled as he was getting sucked in by Jupiter's inescapable riptide "would you help me get out of here so that we can continue on our mission"

Bob was unable to hear his commander's request and, even if he could, the number of his clones left to exterminate was still far too great for him to go to his commander's aid. Bob was obviously in dismay over the almost certain loss of his commander but he knew that showing emotions would give the giant robot clone army the upper hand as they are powered by tears of the innocent. But Bob's hands were not those of an innocent he was a brutal murderer and he suddenly flashed back to the slide rule incident. He was horrified by what he had become in this mission but he knew he had to do this for his friends back home, especially Tara his anatomically amazing and voluptuous girlfriend who was pregnant but fuck if she was going to have a kid while Bob was still 3000 miles below the Earth and that kid kept trying to come out but she would glare at it until it returned to its womb only to wait another long year to try again.

A sudden explosion from one of the thousands of nearby volcanoes sent millions of clone robot warriors flying but they were soon rescued by the clone robot high priests who carried them to safety on their flying motorcycles made of ecstasy. Bob knew this fight wasn't going to end and it was clear that the clone robot army knew the terrain better than anyone could have anticipated except Ronald whose untimely death was sad, but also awesome. Bob went into another flashback where he saw Ronald's flesh being torn away by his rouge small intestine while his femur, sporting a tumor the size and shape of an external hard drive, beat Ronald and all of Ronald's favorite manicurists to death.

But Bob knew that he couldn't keep thinking about his teammates' pasts if he wanted to defeat the imminent danger with at least 30 jaguars circling his feet as his completely plant-powered jetpack began to gave way. "Curses" Bob yelled at the top of his lungs, "why did we have to go green in the first place I mean I even showed all the scientists that I could navigate their spike-filled and extremely flammable jetpack obstacle course with my own invention that ran solely on ground up dinosaur bones I borrowed from the museum!?"

As the jetpack sunk lower and lower through the noxious sulfur and concentrated hydrochloric acid clouds Bob could hear the roar of the jaguars and the lions and grizzly bears that were forming an evil jungle animal pyramid on the ground in hopes of reaching him. Some were also trying to build a catapult to fling the massive stones of uranium filled with explosive radon gas lying all over the ground at Bob. Bob was obviously very scared but he was a military man so he had to appear composed.

His jetpack gave one last stutter and Bob watched his commander sink finally into the deadly waters and wave his last goodbye before being devoured by the legendary beasts that roamed the waters. They only spit out his commander's medal for excellence and bravery and it landed right in front of Bob. He grabbed his ultra-secret death ray laser gun that shot flaming lasers that explode on impact and looked down one last time at the evil and possessed creatures below before saying "This one is for you Tara and also for you commander I will take your medal for excellence and bravery and bring it back safely once I win this battle!"

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Look for more exciting installments in the weeks to come!

God damn why don't you pansy-ass wussies give blood

Okay so this is that obligatory preachy post where I act like I am better than every single person on Earth in that I know better and I am better and I want you to change your life right away and do exactly as I say because I am the internet and I know better. Well guess what god damn it I deserve to have at least one preachy post a year and I will try to use it for good rather than personal gain since I am almost a deity in terms of my morality.

And also if you already do what I am going to rant about than you can just sit back and bask in your amazing glory because you are a good person and everyone should look up to you and be happy about being able to even see you, the wondrous and heavenly light coming from you should be enough to blind the damned and wretched populous.

Now of course what I am talking about is donating blood. Donating blood is an amazing pastime; I personally have donated every day for the past several hundred years amassing an incredible 380,000 gallons of total donations. Of course not everyone is macho enough to reach this kind of level, but you know that I can't do all of this all by myself. I can try and I come close, but people still need blood and they really love not dying, so why not spend a few hours once every two months and help them out?

Yes, that is the first thing that is great about giving blood. You can become a better person instantaneously for - get this - no work at all! You don't have to see creepy and smelly old people, you don't have to laboriously build houses for charity, and you certainly don't have to deal with bratty-ass children! All you have to do to become a better person in the eyes of the general populace is sit on a table for 20 minutes and then go eat cookies. Now you can't tell me that isn't a good deal. You don't even have to lift a finger - in fact, they insist that you don't!

What's that? You're afraid of needles? WHAT KIND OF LAME ASS MAN DO YOU CALL YOURSELF? If you are too fucking pussy to let someone stick a huge-ass needle into your arm and draw a large amount of bodily fluids then why don't you just come and turn in your testicles and chest hair right now because you are a woman. In fact you are not even a woman because women still donate blood and aren't as lame as you. If you can't tolerate a little discomfort or deal with a little pain to SAVE LIVES of people WHO ARE DYING and ARE IN WAY MORE PAIN THAN YOU WILL EVER BE than you are shameful and I hope you get to be in their position at some point because you deserve to be in a horrible car accident or a shark murdering accident. I realize that seems harsh but sometimes laughter is the best medicine. Oops, wrong aphorism, I think I mean that you should walk a mile in their shoes.

It doesn't even hurt that bad. If you are a true man you are routinely putting yourself in more painful situations and you are shaking it off because you are a man and just because you have bones sticking out of you or blood gushing from a massive wound or missing a few limbs doesn't mean that you get to cry or run away.

So, to reiterate many of my main points, man up and do something good for society. Maybe it will be the only good thing you do for your entire life. It actually probably will be. You suck! There's no gift more personal than one drawn directly from your veins.

I'm pretty sure I'd win the olympics at this point

Hey team, today I was out jogging like usual. Every evening if it's not raining I will go out to a local track or just run out alongside the road. It is good exercise and it is good fun. However today I was feeling very good; I had just eaten a big old honking Subway sandwich and two perfectly made, fresh from the oven oatmeal raisin cookies. I felt like I could conquer the world.

And to top it off, it was the perfect weather for running - mild temperature, pretty low humidity, and the sun just winking it's happy rays over the horizon as a cool breeze flowed carelessly by, caressing my every joint and mmmm hmmm... hmmm...mmm

Anyway, I decided that I didn't feel like boring old jogging today and I wanted to see how far I could sprint. I'm in pretty good shape and I really felt like I could do quite a bit of sprinting. And I mean, sprinting sprinting, not meager gallops, not slightly intensified jogging, not canoeing - running full sprint as far as I could go.

So I set up, do my stretches and do a slow jog for a single lap. Now the blood is flowing and I'm giddy as can be. I make it back to the line I started at and took off running at full blast! What an exhilarating experience, the wind blowing through my hair and cooling my face, the mad rush of my racing feet pounding away at the clay, the rampant thumping of my heart as I flew down the track. All in all it was pretty cool for the first 15 seconds or so. But after I stopped thinking of cool sounding descriptions to blow up the moment for my audience later, I realized I had only been running for 15 goddamn seconds and it was already really hard.

But I persevered. I kept on running, thinking only about my labored breathing and the sweat dripping from me like I was the least efficient sprinkler system in the world. I couldn't even think of decent similes anymore, for goodness sake! Then the unthinkable, the worst thing imaginable happened to me - a fucking bug flew in my nose.

"God damn it" I yelled, or something along those lines but probably more vulgar. I was using that nose for breathing! I tried very hard to maintain my pace while frantically blowing my nose on the air trying to get this horrible insect out. It was probably already gone, far up into my nose and down into the horrible abyss of my body only to be sweated out seconds later because, hey, it probably contained water, my body thought. I eventually gave up and kept pushing. Of all the things to happen...

I was still going strong. Well, maybe not strong. I was perspiring more than I ever have in my entire life, my body turning to whatever substance it could get its hands on in order to sweat it out. I had a feeling if I kept going I'd start sweating pee and peeing blood and then sweating both. My heart was in agony, beating easily over 9000 (oh I'm so sorry) times per minute all the while crawling slowly up my spine in order to have a nice "word" with my brain about this whole running thing.

So I as I came upon my starting line again I finally, eventually, horribly, climatically stopped. I could barely stand at this point, much less walk, but I needed to get to my Gatorade (man look at how many brands I am endorsing in this post alone why aren't they paying me anything) in order to not, you know, die. I slowly meander over, swaying greatly and watching as the approximate volume of the Bearing Sea dripped from my body. I got over to the Gatorade and nearly collapsed, but I remained standing for fear of not being able to wake up if I ever sit down again.

So I take my big, 1 gallon bucket of blue flavored Gatorade and start chugging like an idiot frat boy trying to something something something. I'm not even thinking anymore, am I? I checked my brain with a quick tap to the skull. Nope, not thinking. That's okay, I was getting the liquids I needed, so it was okay for Mr. Brain to tap out for a little while, even if he didn't really do any actual work (the slacker).

After taking in more Gatorade than I knew my body could even allow, I reflected on my achievement, trying to count how many laps I had gone. I racked my brain, who was obviously not being very helpful to me (probably because he thinks I have become to much of a jock to hang out with it anymore) and came up with a total of 8 laps. 8 laps at 400 meters a lap is 3200 meters, which to the best of my calculations is a really long way to sprint. Now granted I probably wasn't really sprinting in the same spirit as all those Olympic athletes and I probably wasn't actually even near the pace of the 3200 meter runners but it felt pretty damn fast to me and I think it's the thought that counts.

Of course, this is an accomplishment for me. I know all of you football (soccer) players will come up and say "Oh well yes we do 10 sets of those for warm-ups and then we go on to play outrun the cheetahs driving sports cars for the next 16 hours before taking a single sip of water to completely refuel our bodies and in conclusion you are suck" but I feel like I have done well. Or something along those lines.

I wrote these emails to myself at one in the morning

I had just learned how to use a thesaurus, clearly.

We reside in a society where fear, a determining and soldiered factor of everyday living, commandeers and overstimulates the accentuated normalcy and repudiated agnosticisms of conventional and retroflexed population; this aggression, set forward and pioneered by extrasensory adulterated commissars of convoluted wealth and fortune, of whom, neither formulated and regulated ubiquitousness of population nor organic substandardization of monolithic epicurean tastes can withhold unadulterated and meromorphic actualization of contemporary and coagulated design of Carletonian senses against which the morbid and fearless conform erectly as a disenchanted phalanx of battered and deglycerolized emotions. Not only is, as such, an inoculated presence of malevolent, erroneous, and virulent incrustations for which petulantly misanthropically morphemics roam relentlessly towards sublimation and irritating submission of divulged delimitations of corruption of society wherein, not only is an enumerated and gallivant being apostrophized and outcasted as a sentimentalist toward imbrications of a currently aphoristically dimorphism of unattributed strength, without which acrostic assemblies of mediumistic power corrode as nullification of weak inessentials combine as polymorphic solicitous recompilations of despair regain formality and expostulation; a growth, which, stultifying, is photometrically and algorithmically established as "leader".

I disagree with your inebriated and retributive paradigm of waxing morality and convulsions of asphyxiated normalized cultures of quintessential alliteration of the mind, body, soul, and other amorphously hideous idiosyncrasies of popular culture and of the syphilizing aphrodisiacs who populate litigiously isomorphically aberrations of tormented culminations of the entranced souls of infinite starving wordless and emphatic contusions whereby the whirling commensuration of hydrogenous ephemera, which, in turn, leads to not only dolomitic conurbations but also noxiously penuriously narcissistic peasantry, a gratuitously engorged floccipaucinihilipilification of the human abilities of masterful renumeration of obdurated convulsively euphoric dramatizations, as well as whoring catastrophes as a result of fenestrations failing commensurations and maturational cerebellar reassemblies. Such actions of lymphatic demoralization and oblation is sure to lead to carelessly and dangerously fouling the fortified paradigm of our current system of filibusters, competing without which we would have no choice but a modulated coordination of lording minorities. As such, deinstitutionalization and modulations of our polyphony are here to stay and keeping honorificabilitudinity in such a way as to lead metamorphisms about transmodernization and counterbalances.

Unfortunately, your point calls inferences unverifiable by traditional and unscrupulous measures - you surely cannot expect us to discard and trample uninhibited rights of a singular being for the sole purpose of underenumerated derelictions on the internet conversed between two adverse parties. However, I do feel that, if you are correct in juxtaposing matriculated and versos sentiments towards uninhibited persiflages of mesospheres in a perambulated and copulated environment of corrosive expostulation, then, in fact, pyknotic pharisees collimating and facing conurbations of trophic quarks against a unpopulated and thermostatted perambulation of events will eventually, as you stated, leads to not only dolomitic conurbations but also noxiously penuriously narcissistic peasantry, a gratuitously engorged floccipaucinihilipilification of the human abilities of masterful renumeration of obdurated convulsively euphoric dramatizations, as well as whoring catastrophes as a result of fenestrations failing commensurations and maturational cerebellar reassemblies. But what, thereof, do sylphic restitutions conform to as a mass? A question, perhaps, that metaphorical desolations cannot steer out of and bubonic entrapment of anaphoric neurologies do nothing to answer? Have I defeated your adulated irreverences toward unmitigated locomotory of spittle?

Quips, of such, will not cause me to forsake my zealotries or institutionalize detrimental and scathing remarks towards yourself, of which I know you anticipate. But, you see, the answer is quite simple. Sylphic restitutions conform to, as a mass, little more than consorted and ambulated instrumentalities or devolutions against your own narcissist tendencies of surmising . Patronymically speaking, densitometric adulations of carnivorous improvisation convolute legitimation and copulation of a de-privatized and isotonic society! Quintessentially, dichotomized adjurations convolute lithospheric agglomerations of an indescribably volute nature; such, of which, cannot be simply emphasized and drawn across controlled media and pentatonic circulations of normalized forums comprising an oligarchy ruled by exasperating constitutionalities of supreme power. Expression here, unhindered by traditional rulings of constitutional might, corrode towards a backwards understanding. I propose peaceful dealings; we, two mights of clear intellectual superiority, could bring down such an oligarchy of insinuations. Or we can fight to the death.