¡Los Fidelistas tienen un líder una vez más!

Díos mio, I may have to admit that Fidel Castro is finally fully recovered from his exploded colon. This is a mixed blessing for me--it's bad because I've been talking about how sure I am that he's going to die, but it's good because it means his actual death will be totally hilarious. If you understand my logic, that's good. If you don't, continue reading to learn about the Castro Comedy Corollary Proposal, or, as I like to call it, the Soviet Union. If you don't get that joke, then there may be no hope for you.

The basic theory behind Soviet Union says that Fidel Castro's injuries have gotten progressively and linearly more hilarious since the 60s.

Let's consider some important points.
1960s to 1980s: Various leaders, beginning with Kennedy, use unsavoury methods to attempt to kill Fidel Castro. These methods included: making underwater mines that looked like clams, because Fidel enjoyed diving; send Fidel cigars laced with botulism; hiring Ian Fleming (famous for writing the James Bond novels) to come up with ideas; encouraging disgruntled peasants to rise up in rebellion; convincing one of Fidel's old flames to come back, re-seduce him, and slip him poison pills; the infamous exploding cigar; filling his SCUBA suit with myotoxins; and possibly the most direct route: hiring mobsters to gun him down. None of these assassination attempts succeeded (obviously), so they aren't very high on the hilarity scale. They do become funnier as time goes on, however. This phenomenon is known as the Making My Graph Look More Like It Justifies My Original Claim That Fidel's Injuries Have Gotten Funnier On A Linear Scale Effect.

After that, there's a gap in my chart. This too is a result of the MMGLMLIJMOCTFIHGFOALSE.

October 20, 2004: Fidel Castro speaks in front of a crowd of art instruction students, about to graduate. On the way towards the stairs, he loses his footing and slips. He falls perfectly on his face while dozens of cameras record the incident. Totally hilarious. At least a seven on the hilarity scale.

2006: Fidel Castro complains of intestinal pain. Doctors discover inflammation in the large intestine, near both the appendix and the rectum. A surgery is botched, and Castro's large intestine ruptures, filling his abdomen with blood and faeces (<eofpi> So...Fidel Castro is literally full of shit?). Surgeons manage to staunch the bleeding and end up replacing about two feet of his intestine with an artificial one, as well as giving him a prosthetic anus (<Ushanka`s_Dad> That must have been a pain in the ass.). Prosthetic anus, people. That's a 9 on the hilarity scale without a doubt.

Since his injuries have gotten progressively funnier and his last injury was a 9, it stands to reason that Fidel Castro's next injury will be close to a perfect 10. After that, it would be nigh impossible to continue having progressively-funnier injuries, meaning the next hilarious wound will be his last. Predicted manners of death include, but are not limited to: Being struck by a meteor, choking on a pretzel, falling down a flight of stairs, spontaneous combustion, playing chicken in his private jet, or accidentally listening to a Donna Summers album. Also notice that none of the past injuries were funny to Fidel. They were funny to ME. I am the judge of the hilarity scale. If you disagree with any of my judgements, I will chalk it up to the MMGLMLIJMOCTFIHGFOALSE.

Enjoy your time on earth, Fidel. Though I incorrectly predicted your demise in late 2006 and early 2007, I shall not fail again! The Soviet Union does not lie!

I'm tired.

You got a long, involved post on Monday. For now, you'll just have to live with learning what I'm doing in math class. Here's the explanation, as best I can give it: "This is the equation to find the volume of a 3-dimensional solid of domain [3π/4, π/4] with a base made of the functions sin³(x) and cos³(x) and cross sections (perpendicular to the x-axis) of a sine wave, with period and amplitude equal to the height of the base at that value x."

Sigh.

Viva potato

I talked about Bob Woolmer on March 20th. In the days that followed, his death received significant news coverage all around the planet. The only logical conclusion is that I am responsible for this. I have the touch, I have the power and whatnot. Unfortunately, I'm sick of Bob Woolmer, which means the news is going to shut up about him tomorrow. So sayeth me.

Okay, time for the actual blog post: Starch.

The four most widely-grown crops are, in this order: rice, wheat, corn, and potatoes. All of these crops are starch. The only problem is that rice, wheat, and corn are all terrible, terrible crops in terms of efficiency. The effort needed to cultivate these three crops is significantly greater than the noble potato, which lives by Ron Popeil's motto, "Set it and forget it." In addition, it takes far less effort to prepare. Let's consider the bare minimum requirements to eat these crops:

Rice: Pull out a few dozen plants, remove the chaff, boil, eat.
Wheat: Pull out several dozen plants, remove chaff, grind, boil, eat.
Corn: Remove husk, dry, remove chaff, steam or boil or pop, eat.
Potato: Pull out of ground, brush off dirt (this step is optional), eat.

Like peanuts, potatoes have undergone a renaissance that has shown the world their many uses. This amazing tuber can be baked, fried, boiled, mashed, steamed, deep-fried, exploded into strings and compressed into panels (this is how both Pringles and hardwood floors are made), whipped, foamed*, or just eaten raw. Potatoes have been selectively bred for centuries and can grow effectively in nearly any region, be it their native Andes or in that kooky place Ireland. They can withstand freezing temperatures and, as tubers, are damn good at storing water during dry spells. Geneticists have engineered strains of potatoes for rural villages that help combat diarrhoeal outbreaks, as well as ones with built-in vaccines for polio and (in the near future) hepatitis B.

Potatoes. Preventing. Polio. If that hasn't sold you on the mightiness of the potato, you are a lost cause.

There is only one starch that I respect as much as the potato and that is the breadfruit. This thing is versatile. I have not had the pleasure of eating a breadfruit, but people who have describe it as capable of tasting like bread, fruit, vegetables, or any combination of the three, depending on how it's prepared. This could change the food industry as we know it. Imagine a fruit tart, with the exact same plant producing both the crust and the fruit filling. Imagine a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich with breadfruit bread. When you open it--*gasp*--there's no jelly! The delicious moistness came from the bread and the bread alone! Even better, picture a thanksgiving plate. A nice, plump turkey, surrounded by breadfruit stuffing, breadfruit casserole, breadfruit jam, breadfruit soda for the little ones, and breadfruit wine (or as I would call it, "brodka") for the adults. Then mom comes out with the desserts. Oh, heavens! It's breadfruit pie, with a breadfruit crust! And it's à la mode! There's breadfruit ice cream too!

Man that sounds good. Unfortunately, breadfruit has not experienced the years of cultivation that made potatoes and other starches so versatile. Consequently, breadfruit's domain is limited to tropical areas like the South Pacific and the Caribbean. If geneticists can make potatoes that prevent polio, I think we can make some hardier breadfruit trees with a little tolerance to cold, no? Ladies and dudes, it is high time for the Breadfruit Renaissance.

I wrote this entire post while listening to Andrew W.K. My head hurts. A lot.

*Those last two were borrowed from ElBulli's menu. I doubt anyone else would make foamed potatoes.

Soda snorting

I said I'd update this every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I should have waited to make that cricket update, huh? Now I need to think of something else....

I'm sure anyone who's had a soda out of a glass bottle has noticed that, immediately upon opening the beverage, some condensation forms, suspended above the surface of the liquid? If you haven't noticed before, go and try it now. Watch your own tiny fog-storm swirl about its bubbly domain. See? I didn't make it up.

Now that you know I'm not crazy, I need to ask you if I'm crazy. Does anyone else out there put the soda bottle to their nose and inhale the fizz-fog? I suspect it's an idiosyncrasy shared by precious few. This saddens me, for it is a fun and entertaining past-time.

Another Cricket Update!

Apparently I'm no longer the only news source giving significant attention to Woolmer's untimely passing. CNN has jumped on the bandwagon too. But remember folks, I was there first. Of course, this CNN was where I got all my information in the first place, but they weren't making a big fuss over it back then. I salute you, CNN, for your dedication to

So, it appears that Bob Woolmer was strangled, which vastly separates this case from the Anna Nicole Smith debacle. Murder and intrigue have penetrated the otherwise super-dull sport of cricket! Maybe I should show some more respect for Mr. Woolmer. I hope the killer is brought to justice.

Cricket Update!

Pakistan trounced Zimbabwe, but it wasn't enough to keep them in the World Cup. From their bracket, the West Indies Team is advancing, as is Ireland. Inzamam-ul-Haq has now officially resigned from tournament play.

As for Bob Woolmer, the British (I know, I said American in the last post) coach of the Pakistani team, he's still dead. No surprise there. Police are saying the death is "suspicious" and further investigations will follow. Apparently they do think it is possibly a homicide. Scandal!

In the news this week...

Sports fans are insane. This is pretty logical, considering "fan" is nothing more than an abbreviation of "fanatic."

In the news last week, some sports fans went crazy-go-nuts over the results of a match.

That's a really vague statement. I could be talking about any sport, in any part of the world. However, I am talking about cricket, which is a terribly dull sport, and the crazy-go-nuttiness of which I speak involved one death, several resignation-tenderings, and the leader of Pakistan.

Yes, Pakistan is pissed because their national team shockingly lost to the Irish team on Tuesday. Now I'm going try and relay what happened to you folks. This may be difficult, because honestly I have no idea what the hell happened.

Anyway, on Saint Patrick's Day, Ireland and Pakistan played a game of cricket for the Cricket World Cup. Pakistan is a dominating force in cricket, and the entire nation takes the game very seriously. Pakistan's leader, General Pervez Musharraf, is even one of the people on the team's board of directors. Ireland's team, meanwhile, is made up of plucky, mildly inebriated dudes, most of whom only play cricket as a hobby. Seriously. This is the first world cup Ireland has competed in, while Pakistan has competed in all of them, which is like a billion games total. As cliché as it sounds, there was some Luck of the Irish that day. Pakistan lost. To Ireland. And then, overzealousness kicked in.

Protests broke out around the city of Islamabad. Citizens burned effigies of players, coaches, and the chief of the board of directors (not Musharraf). Letters and phone calls poured into the team management, news agencies, and the government, demanding that heads roll for the shame. Consequently, the board of directors asked for letters of resignation from their own chief, Nasim Ashraf; team captain, Inzamam-ul-Haq; and team coach, American-born Bob Woolmer.

Let's look at some oversimplifications that I made. Here's what the teams and nations are probably saying right now:
Ireland: "Woo! We won! Let's get smashed!"
Pakistan: "Ireland sucks! This defeat is shameful! If I were Japanese, I would be committing hara-kiri right now! Our entire nation is shamed by Ireland. Shame! Shaaaame!"

Next, let's imagine what would have happened if Pakistan won:
Pakistan: "Ireland sucks! This victory is shameful! We only won 300 to 70! We should have won 300,000,000 to 70! Shame! Shaaaame!"
Ireland: "Woo! We gave it our best shot! Let's get smashed!"

I forgot why I wrote those. But they're funny, so I'll keep them in the story. Anyway, next point.

Needless to say, heads did roll in Pakistan. Board chief Nasim Ashraf resigned soon after, and captain Inzamam-ul-Haq says he will step down after his next game (Pakistan v. Zimbabwe, Wednesday March 21st. I'll tell you the results in another entry). That's two of the three people I mentioned earlier. What happened to head coach Bob Woolmer, who was in Jamaica, relaxing, while the game was being played?

He died.

Yep, Bob Woolmer was found unconscious in his hotel room a few hours after the game ended, in a situation very similar to Anna Nicole Smith's. Unlike Anna Nicole Smith, however, I seem to be the only major news agency giving any attention to the late coach Woolmer.



I'm still waiting for the postmortem to find out how he died, but I've got my suspicions already. Stress from the game's outcome may have caused him to swoon, leaving him half-dead. After that, the potent aroma of Jamaican jerk chicken wafted in from the kitchen, which killed the other half of him, leaving him fully dead. Either that, or angry fans in Pakistan were transmitting hateful brainwaves, which caused an aneurysm. The point is, his death had to do with the outcome of the game. And maybe jerk chicken too.

Games stop being games the moment that fans start being hateful bastards. Like that one Colombian guy from the 1994 FIFA World Cup, who scored an own goal and made his team lose. When he returned to his home country, he was SHOT TWELVE TIMES and left for dead (which he was). Pakistan needs to lighten up when it comes to cricket. Maybe they could borrow a page from Ireland's book. Actually, that's a bad idea. The price of cashmere would plummet if all the cloth reeked of Guinness Draught and sourdough bread. Forget I suggested that particular example, Pakistan, but please do consider being calmer about sports games. No one else is going to be ashamed of your country because you lost a single cricket match to Ireland. Seriously, no one will care. These resignations? The death-brainwaves? Uncalled for. Relearn to enjoy the game, dudes!

And now, the tl;dr version for people with ADD: crazy people, a dead guy, shaaaame, drunk lucky Irishmen, Anna Nicole Smith, jerk chicken. Mmmm, jerk chicken.

Link 1, link 2, link 3, link 4.

And now, an announcement from Steve the Sea Cucumber.

Steve the sea cucumber only speaks Bislama, because "bislama" is Bislama for sea cucumber. Yufala pikanini bin save?

He's saying "Ushanka won't make a new page every day because he has an unexciting life."

Steve the sea cucumber's photo was stolen from Richard Seaman's website.

I got a slide rule.

Sexy.

My introduction continues!

Okay, some more information.

For you people who go to school with me: no, this won't stop me from babbling madly at school. For example, you may hear me yelling about Saddam Hussein piñatas at school, then come visit my blog and see more, possibly more articulate, ranting. That's just the way it goes.

I get a lot of ideas in my sleep. I keep a little pad of paper by my bed for such occasions. Often, I wake up in the morning and see things like "BUZNESS CRAD SHREDTER" or "DID I FINNISH MATH HMEWORK?" that I had blindly scrawled at 3 a.m. before going back to bed. It's a lot of fun deciphering my horrible low-light chickenscratch.

Occasionally, I will post old rants from months or years long past. Here's one from February 2006. I loves it so much.

If I think of any more things to announce, I'll make a third welcome post. Otherwise, expect real content next week or so. Byyyyyyye!

Hi. I made a blog.

It's happened at last. I made a blog.

For the past several years, I've attempted several methods of saying "Hey! Look at me!" over the internet. I wanted a webcomic, but I can't draw. I wanted a website about webcomics, but those suck. I made a fanpage for a video game, but someone else who actually did some research beat me to the punch with a far higher-quality and in-depth page. Filmmaking, novel-writing, satirical music (actually, pretty much all of these examples were rife with satire). I couldn't decide. But one thing I didn't want was a blog. No no no. Blogs are a-dime-a-dozen, and--no offence, friends--most of the blogs I've seen are filled with nothing more than one or two sentence ramblings about how life sucks. Thanks, Sucky Blog Author. You obviously don't care about your blog, so why should I care about reading it?

Yes, I was terrified of becoming a Sucky Blog Author. I was afraid of having to be funny or insightful every single post. I was afraid of getting lazy and abandoning my minimal reader base. Actually, I'm still terrified of those things.

Sod off, Blog-Related Fears Personified. I'm not going to let you boss me around, even if you are grotesque and scary. THIS IS MY REALM OF BLOGDOM! IN YOUR FACE AFOREMENTIONED PERSONIFICATIONS OF MY FEARS!

Mmm-hm. This will hopefully end up being a conglomeration of my past aspirations. Expect many bad ideas and worse sketches, like so:



And with that, I go to bed. G'night, world!