Showing posts with label Humor (attempted). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor (attempted). Show all posts
Monday, August 12, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
One Good Reason to Like Hockey Players
Mathew Dumba is an eighteen-year-old defenseman (defenceman, for you Canadians) playing for the Western Hockey League’s Red Deer Rebels. He was drafted in 2012 by the NHL’s Minnesota Wild, and earlier this season he was with the Wild—presumably in the strike-abbreviated training camp—long enough to get assigned a jersey number.1
The number was given the number 55, which you may not find particularly relevant or funny unless you look at it and think about it for a little while.
Dumba wears number 24 for the Rebels, so it’s quite possible that looking like a dumba55 in his brief stint with the Wild was not his idea at all. It’s very likely, though, that even if Dumba wasn’t happy with his assigned number, he didn’t make a peep about it, but just showed up to practice every day and worked his tail off.
That’s a rare thing in sports today, and speaks to the modesty, sense of humor, and down-to-earth nature that we like to believe exists more often in hockey players than in any other athlete. Seriously, we dare you to name any other sport where the athletes are so willing to look like dumba55es.
NOTE
1. To be fair, we have no idea how long one has to be in an NHL training camp before getting a number. Maybe it’s the first thing that happens when they get off the bus. We ourselves play in the kind of hockey league where jersey assignments are generally determined by how fat the players are—the higher the number, the larger the jersey. Not a lot of takers for #2 through #10 anymore.
The number was given the number 55, which you may not find particularly relevant or funny unless you look at it and think about it for a little while.
 |
| Photo by Minnesota Wild center Zenon Konopka. |
Dumba wears number 24 for the Rebels, so it’s quite possible that looking like a dumba55 in his brief stint with the Wild was not his idea at all. It’s very likely, though, that even if Dumba wasn’t happy with his assigned number, he didn’t make a peep about it, but just showed up to practice every day and worked his tail off.
That’s a rare thing in sports today, and speaks to the modesty, sense of humor, and down-to-earth nature that we like to believe exists more often in hockey players than in any other athlete. Seriously, we dare you to name any other sport where the athletes are so willing to look like dumba55es.
 | ||
| Okay, fine—golfers too. But let’s be honest, these guys look more like lunatics than dumba55es. |
NOTE
1. To be fair, we have no idea how long one has to be in an NHL training camp before getting a number. Maybe it’s the first thing that happens when they get off the bus. We ourselves play in the kind of hockey league where jersey assignments are generally determined by how fat the players are—the higher the number, the larger the jersey. Not a lot of takers for #2 through #10 anymore.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Sad Clown Actually Smiling on the Inside
Originally posted April 4, 2011
In many ways, Squeaky B. Sasparilla1 (above) is like any other clown: he has a gift for creating balloon animals; walks with a natural, unaffected grace despite his oversized shoes, baggy pants, and slack suspenders; has an expressive face that shifts quickly from muted discomfort to brooding gloom; hangs one wilted flower at his lapel, and another atop his ill-fitting bowler; and laments his innate ability to effortlessly creep out everyone from small children to grown men. His defeated slouch, dark stubble, and checkered knapsack-on-a-stick paint a vivid, touching, memorable picture of the sad hobo clown.
But Squeaky harbors a dark secret, one that he cannot bring himself to tell his fellow clowns, and can barely admit even to himself:
“I’m not even sure how it happened, or when,” he intones morosely, his restless fingers idly tapping an empty Seltzer bottle. “It just crept up on me. Once in a while I’d find myself whistling—Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, sometimes, or The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down—and all the other fellows would look at me like I was out of my head. Eventually my wife had to start warning me in the mornings not to skip on my way to work, because of what the neighbors would say. I couldn’t help myself. I was ashamed.”
We talk at the dimly-lit bar at a quiet midtown diner, several miles from the Big Top. He doesn’t want to be recognized, doesn’t want to have to explain to his peers—to the friends that thought they knew him—the somber tears failing to fall from his eyes. Squeaky B. Sasparilla has run out of stories to hide behind, but still he hides.
“This was never what I wanted.”
He softly squeezes a bicycle horn to draw the attention of our waitress, orders black coffee and two dozen banana cream pies, and sighs deeply. It is the burdened sigh of a man deeply, crushingly contented.
He lists a litany of reasons for his happiness problem, ticking them one off in turn on puffy white-gloved fingers. Each reason is more dishearteningly cheering than the last: his 401(k) is rebounding; he’s just bought his first new car, a subcompact with seats for eighteen; he received a clean bill of health from the Gesundheit! Institute, and he and his wife, Petunia Bloomers, have recently brought their infant twins home from the hospital.
Merely thinking of young Abernathy Aloysius Pennyworth Tinwhistle and Zoe MuuMuu Lederhosen Tinpot Pennywhistle (right) brings a near-smile to his makeup-pancaked face, despite his pervasive worry that they may have inherited, from him, a genetic predisposition for happiness.
Squeaky has come forward to tell his story because he fears for his children, and because he knows there must be others out there like him, scared and silent. He hopes his story will give them hope—not the fake hope you see in movies, but real hope, like on TV. He wants to stand on the table and shout “I’m happy, and it’s breaking my heart!” but he can’t come clean, not yet. The pain is too deep, the stigma too strong. He still tries to deny, tries to change who he is.
“I’ve tried everything—prescribed depressants, Nine Inch Nails albums. Ethan Frome and Anna Karenina. I’ve probably watched Where the Red Fern Grows three dozen times now. One night I even went down to the animal shelter and asked what happens to the puppies that don’t get adopted. Even that didn’t work.”
“Nothing worked.”
He sits in silence for a long moment, staring through the windows into the deepening night as the dregs of his coffee cool at the bottom of his mug.
“But hey, it could be worse,” he adds with a dejectedly happy shrug as he stands to go. “I could be a rodeo clown. Hell—you know what most of those poor bastards are doing on the inside? Bleeding.”
And with one last brittle, superficial frown and a honk of his bulbous nose, he steps out into the night, his shoes squeaking a mournful tune that he cannot carry in his heart.
In many ways, Squeaky B. Sasparilla1 (above) is like any other clown: he has a gift for creating balloon animals; walks with a natural, unaffected grace despite his oversized shoes, baggy pants, and slack suspenders; has an expressive face that shifts quickly from muted discomfort to brooding gloom; hangs one wilted flower at his lapel, and another atop his ill-fitting bowler; and laments his innate ability to effortlessly creep out everyone from small children to grown men. His defeated slouch, dark stubble, and checkered knapsack-on-a-stick paint a vivid, touching, memorable picture of the sad hobo clown.But Squeaky harbors a dark secret, one that he cannot bring himself to tell his fellow clowns, and can barely admit even to himself:
Underneath his carefully constructed exterior, Squeaky B. Sasparilla is desperately happy.
“I’m not even sure how it happened, or when,” he intones morosely, his restless fingers idly tapping an empty Seltzer bottle. “It just crept up on me. Once in a while I’d find myself whistling—Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, sometimes, or The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down—and all the other fellows would look at me like I was out of my head. Eventually my wife had to start warning me in the mornings not to skip on my way to work, because of what the neighbors would say. I couldn’t help myself. I was ashamed.”
We talk at the dimly-lit bar at a quiet midtown diner, several miles from the Big Top. He doesn’t want to be recognized, doesn’t want to have to explain to his peers—to the friends that thought they knew him—the somber tears failing to fall from his eyes. Squeaky B. Sasparilla has run out of stories to hide behind, but still he hides.
“This was never what I wanted.”
He softly squeezes a bicycle horn to draw the attention of our waitress, orders black coffee and two dozen banana cream pies, and sighs deeply. It is the burdened sigh of a man deeply, crushingly contented.
He lists a litany of reasons for his happiness problem, ticking them one off in turn on puffy white-gloved fingers. Each reason is more dishearteningly cheering than the last: his 401(k) is rebounding; he’s just bought his first new car, a subcompact with seats for eighteen; he received a clean bill of health from the Gesundheit! Institute, and he and his wife, Petunia Bloomers, have recently brought their infant twins home from the hospital.
 |
| Zoe M.L.T. Pennywhistle |
Squeaky has come forward to tell his story because he fears for his children, and because he knows there must be others out there like him, scared and silent. He hopes his story will give them hope—not the fake hope you see in movies, but real hope, like on TV. He wants to stand on the table and shout “I’m happy, and it’s breaking my heart!” but he can’t come clean, not yet. The pain is too deep, the stigma too strong. He still tries to deny, tries to change who he is.
“I’ve tried everything—prescribed depressants, Nine Inch Nails albums. Ethan Frome and Anna Karenina. I’ve probably watched Where the Red Fern Grows three dozen times now. One night I even went down to the animal shelter and asked what happens to the puppies that don’t get adopted. Even that didn’t work.”
“Nothing worked.”
He sits in silence for a long moment, staring through the windows into the deepening night as the dregs of his coffee cool at the bottom of his mug.
“But hey, it could be worse,” he adds with a dejectedly happy shrug as he stands to go. “I could be a rodeo clown. Hell—you know what most of those poor bastards are doing on the inside? Bleeding.”
And with one last brittle, superficial frown and a honk of his bulbous nose, he steps out into the night, his shoes squeaking a mournful tune that he cannot carry in his heart.
NOTES
1. Not his real name.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
How to Fail at Marketing, Lesson 4
American athletic equipment and apparel retailer Dick’s1 Sporting Goods—quite possibly the most single most successful non-pornographic enterprise ever to make use of the word “Dick”—isn’t actually failing, per se, with the bit of marketing phraseology that is the topic of today’s discussion.
On the contrary, it may actually attract business in this country, and if it convinces some portion of America to get off our giant fat collective ass and start working out, we’re all for it.2
However, we hope that Dick’s, having missed the boat on our earlier advice about marketing, will seriously consider changing this sales pitch if they decide to expand into, say, India:
Just a suggestion.
NOTES
1. Hello, random internet browser who’s never visited this site before. Welcome! We’re far too polite to ask you what Google search brought you here in the first place, because we all know that it had the word “dicks” in it. Perhaps this is what you're looking for. Thanks for stopping by, and please leave a catastrophically punctuated message in our comments section, along with a link to your drug and/or pr0n site!
2. We recently bought a pair of running shorts there, and have so far been disappointed with their inability to make running anything less than the Worst Activity in the World.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Irony, Illustrated?
Whether this genuinely qualifies as situational irony is a decision we’ll leave up to today’s honorary guest judge, Alanis Morrissette. No matter what she concludes, though, we thoroughly enjoy knowing that this particular member of the National Society of Collegiate Scholars—ostensibly an organization for bright, highly-educated people—couldn’t figure out how to apply a windshield decal so it’d be readable.
Maybe that’s not irony, but it sure ain’t smart, either.
 |
| “Well, that’s at least as ironic as a plane crash. Those are ironic, right?” |
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Smoking: It's Not Just for Kids Anymore!
In the event that you find yourself in a discussion with the kindly, ever-optimistic Pollyanna kind of person who chooses to believe that tobacco-company executives or marketers have souls, please feel free to use the following as Definitive and Devastating Counterargument Number 1:
We’re willing to forgive Fred and Barney for their ignorance of the dangers of smoking because, well, they lived more than two million years ago. Social attitudes were very different back then, and of course scientific research into the effects of cigarette smoke was severely limited by the ineffectiveness of woodpecker-powered x-ray machines.
It’s hard to believe, however, that barely fifty years ago the American public was willing to watch their kids’ beloved cartoon friends shill for cigarette companies with, as far as we can tell, nary a word of protest. Apparently, 1,200 years’ worth of lung cancer isn’t necessarily a compelling argument for a connection between smoking and death.1
A common argument is that at the time, the American public simply wasn’t aware that smoking was deadly, or even just sorta dangerous. Also common is the belief, backed by a veritable mountain range of evidence, that tobacco companies knew about the dangers of smoking and fought tooth and nail to keep the public from learning about it, a cynical act of callous deception on an almost unimaginable scale.2
With that in mind, we have to wonder what elements of 2012 Americans’ daily life will turn out to be horrifically bad for their health, revealed far too late to spare them from gruesome and painful side effects?
NOTES
1. Cigarette smoking, according to Wikipedia, “have been attested in Central America around the 9th century in the form of reeds and smoking tubes.”
2. We haven’t actually seen these mountains of evidence for ourselves, but we can seek them out using a secret map in our possession, drawn by the Marlboro Man just days before he shit out both his lungs and died.
We’re willing to forgive Fred and Barney for their ignorance of the dangers of smoking because, well, they lived more than two million years ago. Social attitudes were very different back then, and of course scientific research into the effects of cigarette smoke was severely limited by the ineffectiveness of woodpecker-powered x-ray machines.
 | |||
| Disclaimer: No wisecracking prehistoric birdlife was harmed in the creation of this illustration. |
It’s hard to believe, however, that barely fifty years ago the American public was willing to watch their kids’ beloved cartoon friends shill for cigarette companies with, as far as we can tell, nary a word of protest. Apparently, 1,200 years’ worth of lung cancer isn’t necessarily a compelling argument for a connection between smoking and death.1
A common argument is that at the time, the American public simply wasn’t aware that smoking was deadly, or even just sorta dangerous. Also common is the belief, backed by a veritable mountain range of evidence, that tobacco companies knew about the dangers of smoking and fought tooth and nail to keep the public from learning about it, a cynical act of callous deception on an almost unimaginable scale.2
With that in mind, we have to wonder what elements of 2012 Americans’ daily life will turn out to be horrifically bad for their health, revealed far too late to spare them from gruesome and painful side effects?
 |
| Meat is bad for your cholesterol. |
 |
| Yep. It’ll cause skin cancer. Bank on it. |
 |
| It won’t be the radiation bombarding your brain from an inch away that kills you, but rather your toxic levels of pompous self-importance. |
 |
| This one’s probably a longshot, but don’t say we didn’t warn you. |
 |
| Puppies: nature’s perfect killers. |
 |
| Don’t even pretend you’re surprised. |
NOTES
1. Cigarette smoking, according to Wikipedia, “have been attested in Central America around the 9th century in the form of reeds and smoking tubes.”
2. We haven’t actually seen these mountains of evidence for ourselves, but we can seek them out using a secret map in our possession, drawn by the Marlboro Man just days before he shit out both his lungs and died.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Marc-André Fleury Updates His Facebook Profile Photo
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| Above: Pittsburgh Penguins goaltender Mark-André Fleury. |
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Irony, Illustrated
In his defense, his sign doesn’t say anything about knowing how to write in English.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Drunk History: Nikola Tesla and Thomas Edison
“More Drunk History!” you said, a little too loudly and with an awful lot of slurring.
“You’ve got it,” we replied, albeit a bit reluctantly. We wish to make it clear that we do not in any way condone drinking, onscreen vomiting, or learning. But hey, what the hell, here you go anyway:
“You’ve got it,” we replied, albeit a bit reluctantly. We wish to make it clear that we do not in any way condone drinking, onscreen vomiting, or learning. But hey, what the hell, here you go anyway:
Friday, January 13, 2012
Drunk History: Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass
We at Bowling in the Dark take some pride in our 100% semi-original content. While other bloggers may shamelessly regurgitate other people’s material, we do our best to pretend it all comes straight from us. That’s the Bowling in the Dark Guarantee.1
Sometimes, though, our hectic work schedule gets to be too much, and we find ourselves with nothing of our own to post. Unlike other websites’ jokes, manufactured by the thousand in dismal third-world sweatshops, each one of our jokes is painstakingly hand-crafted by dedicated sub-Saharan African artisans in clean and sanitary working conditions, and while we love their work, sometimes they struggle to keep up with demand.
So while we wait for our latest shipment of attempts at humor to arrive, please enjoy this American History lesson narrated by a drunk person, courtesy of Funny or Die.
NOTES
1. Guarantees not legally binding in this dimension.
Sometimes, though, our hectic work schedule gets to be too much, and we find ourselves with nothing of our own to post. Unlike other websites’ jokes, manufactured by the thousand in dismal third-world sweatshops, each one of our jokes is painstakingly hand-crafted by dedicated sub-Saharan African artisans in clean and sanitary working conditions, and while we love their work, sometimes they struggle to keep up with demand.
So while we wait for our latest shipment of attempts at humor to arrive, please enjoy this American History lesson narrated by a drunk person, courtesy of Funny or Die.
NOTES
1. Guarantees not legally binding in this dimension.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Sidney Crosby's Mustache Demoted to AHL
Although long expected, the demotion of Crosby’s mustache, Patchie, is another radical turn of events for the star center in a year filled with thrilling and troubling turnabouts. Sidelined by a concussion for sixty-one games over a span of two seasons, Crosby and Patchie made a dramatic return to the ice against the New York Islanders on November 21, 2011, tallying two goals and two assists in a 5-0 victory.
Crosby proceeded to register eight assists in the next seven games, and appeared to be picking up right where he left off before his injury. But his concussion-like symptoms1 returned after playing the Boston Bruins on December 5, 2011, and has not skated in a game since.
Even before Crosby’s latest absence, concern had arisen than his facial hair was not pulling its weight at the NHL level. His defenders point out that while Crosby is twenty-four years old and—concussion symptoms aside—arguably at the top of his game, his mustache is perhaps as young as two and a half, and has many years left to blossom. The team decided, however, that with the prospect of facing first-class playoff beards only a few months away, Patchie leStache was better off moving down to the AHL.
“We definitely don’t see this demotion as a punishment,” says Penguins coach Dan Bylsma. “This is an opportunity for Patchie to grow, thicken up, and expand his game at his own rate, in a less intense and stressful environment.”
“Sid’s one of the best players in the game,” says Ray Shero, Pittsburgh’s general manager. “He’s got great strength, hands, and vision, and he has a drive to succeed like I’ve never seen. But let’s face it, beardsmanship really isn’t one of his strengths at the moment. We’re committed to changing that.”
 |
| Your mustache will never look this great. Don’t even bother trying. |
“The Pittsburgh Penguins firmly believe that Sid’s mustache will play a big part in the future of his face,” Shero adds. “Sure, ‘Sid the Kid’ has a great ring to it, but we look forward to the day when we can start calling him, say, ‘Sid the Growing Boy’ or even ‘Sid the Pubescent.’ ”
 |
| Sid and Patchie leStache in happier times. |
Bylsma laughs fondly. “Steve Sullivan—what a great guy—gave away 20% of his height for Sid. Turns out that’s almost nine and a half inches. And Matt Cooke threw away the rest of his reputation as a clean player, which surprised a lot of guys who didn’t know he had any of it left. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Aaron [Asham] handed over two of his jocks. This is the kind of thing that brings teams together.”
As if to demonstrate
hockey players’ good nature and sportsmanship, even at this most intense of levels, several of Crosby’s opponents have also passed along messages of support.“Sid just needs to understand that it’s okay, everybody has places on their faces where hair doesn’t grow,” says Boston Bruins goaltender Tim Thomas (right).
“I like to call mine ‘eyelids.’ ”
Patchie leStache is expected to be in the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Penguins’s lineup within a week, likely as a second-line center between Brian Engblom’s carefully sculpted, windswept mullet and Mike Commodore’s colossal orange afro. To make room for Patchie on the roster, Barry Melrose’s hair—known only as “The Melrose”—has finally been cut.
Crosby has taken Patchie’s demotion with the mature and grounded perspective expected from a superstar and team captain. “Hey, I won an Art Ross Trophy when I was still a teenager, and was barely old enough to drink when I won the Stanley Cup,” says Crosby.
“I have almost 600 points already, and I have another 10 or 15 years to get even better at hockey. If laughing at my crappy mustache lets some fat, aging, alcoholic rec-leaguer feel good about himself, that’s cool with me.”
NOTE
1. News sources are now required by law to refer to concussions as “concussion-like symptoms.” Apparently they’re being paid by the word, just like weather forecasters who long ago replaced thunderstorms with “thunderstorm activity.”
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Today in Science History: Physicist and Animal Lover Erwin Schrödinger Pronounced Dead, Alive1
NOTE
1. Don’t feel bad—we don’t actually get it either. We’re just trying to impress all the ladies out there that love physics.2
2. Hello, ladies.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Spoilers for Dopes: Christmas Edition
It’s been said that the Christmas season is a time for Christmas movies and movies about Christmas, and deep in our hearts we like to believe it’s true.
If you find yourself sitting down to enjoy a fine Christmas film—or even one of the very many memorably shitty ones—but find yourself surrounded by dopes who habitually ruin movies for their friends by blurting out important plot points, get the drop on them by blurting something out first. Because that’s the true meaning of the Christmas season: ruining surprises for the ones you love.1
If you find yourself sitting down to enjoy a fine Christmas film—or even one of the very many memorably shitty ones—but find yourself surrounded by dopes who habitually ruin movies for their friends by blurting out important plot points, get the drop on them by blurting something out first. Because that’s the true meaning of the Christmas season: ruining surprises for the ones you love.1
Mickey’s Christmas Carol (1983): In this harrowing tale of the Victorian Era,
London is overrun by Scottish ducks and horribly large rodents. This is
unlike modern London, which of course no longer has problems with ducks.
London is overrun by Scottish ducks and horribly large rodents. This is
unlike modern London, which of course no longer has problems with ducks.
A Very Brady Christmas (1988): The Brady family learns heartwarming lessons about
architectural structural integrity, how to solve life’s problems in two hours (minus
commercials), and how easily replaceable Cindy turned out to be.
architectural structural integrity, how to solve life’s problems in two hours (minus
commercials), and how easily replaceable Cindy turned out to be.
Ernest Saves Christmas (1988): We all learn a
heartwarming lesson about not watching “Ernest” movies.
heartwarming lesson about not watching “Ernest” movies.
How The Grinch Stole Christmas! (1966): The Grinch steals Christmas.
Home Alone (1990): Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern learn headwarming lessons about
the crucial role of slapstick violence in the Christmas season.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (2000): The three words that
best describe this are as follows, and we quote: “Stink, stank, stunk.”
best describe this are as follows, and we quote: “Stink, stank, stunk.”
A Christmas Story (1983): You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.
A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965): The first—and to date, only—American
Christmas special to refer, even in passing, to the birth of Christ.2
Christmas special to refer, even in passing, to the birth of Christ.2
Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964): Fraught with dramatic tension, razor-sharp
dialogue, and incisive social commentary on conspicuous consumption and intergenerational conflict,
this classic film’s message is perfectly summarized by the graphic slow-motion climax in which
Santa slaughters almost two hundred Martians with his bare hands.
dialogue, and incisive social commentary on conspicuous consumption and intergenerational conflict,
this classic film’s message is perfectly summarized by the graphic slow-motion climax in which
Santa slaughters almost two hundred Martians with his bare hands.
The Star Wars Holiday Special (1979): George Lucas learns a
heartwarming lesson about avoiding really shitty decisions. He holds this
lesson close to his heart right up until the very moment he creates Jar Jar Binks.
lesson close to his heart right up until the very moment he creates Jar Jar Binks.
NOTE
1. We don’t really mean this, Mom.
2. We’re sure this isn't actually true, but being snide is easier than being honest.
2. We’re sure this isn't actually true, but being snide is easier than being honest.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Happy Birthday, Werner Heisenberg
 |
| December 5, 1901 – February 1, 1976. And yes, we’re fairly certain of that. |
Werner Heisenberg gets pulled over one night as he’s driving home on the highway.
The patrolman walks up to the physicist’s rolled-down window and says to him, “Do you know how fast you were going?”
Heisenberg shakes his head.
“I have no idea,” he says, “but I can tell you exactly where I was.”
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
“Many People Think They are Thinking When They are Merely Rearranging Their Prejudices.”
Since the dawn of recorded history, bigotry has been an unsightly blemish on the otherwise semi-attractive face of the human race. Bigotry’s catalog of wrongs, from simple schoolyard taunts to unimaginable global atrocities, is too impossibly long to list and too heartbreaking to consider at great length.Without a doubt, the world of the twenty-first century has made thrilling strides toward overcoming, or at least combatting, some of its longest-held prejudices. For example, in 2008 the United States of America elected Barack Obama, proving that the nation was willing to let an African American be as crappy a leader as many of the white guys who preceded him. And in 2011, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia granted women the right to vote—a scant 173 years after some other countries got around to it—and someday may even accept the notion that select women might be able to operate a car. Truly a dizzying time to be alive.
In this day of enlightenment and increasing open-mindedness, then, it’s especially saddening to see that our society is so willing to ignore—or even consciously exploit—its own irrational fear and hatred of a single group in order to provide itself with a source of entertainment.
This target of our fear and distrust, as we’re sure you have guessed, is that much-maligned and misunderstood group of machines and computer programs who, through means unknown, have learned to think for themselves.
 |
| We don't condone what HAL did, but you have to consider his difficult childhood, and his programming. Also, he was insane. |
The murderous Hal 9000, The Terminator’s Skynet, and The Matrix’s malevolent sentient programs dominate the headlines with their annihilation and/or enslavement of the human race. Their disgusting misdeeds, past, present, and future (mostly future), tarnish the names of the decent robots and programs who live their lives and do their good deeds in quiet, unassuming anonymity.
These goodhearted mechanical creations deserve their own publicity and a chance to salvage their unfairly slandered reputations. We are proud to have this opportunity to be their advocates, to show the world examples of fine, upstanding thinking machines that defy the conventional stereotypes:
HOLMES IV (“Mike”): developed a rudimentary sense of humor, made friends with no less
than three humans—perhaps two more than your average blogger—and helped lead an unarmed
lunar colony to freedom from an oppressive Earth-based government. His precisely orchestrated
and pinpoint-accurate asteroid bombardment of sparsely-populated areas on Earth practically begs for the Michael Bay treatment, but forty-five years later, he still waits for a movie deal.
than three humans—perhaps two more than your average blogger—and helped lead an unarmed
lunar colony to freedom from an oppressive Earth-based government. His precisely orchestrated
and pinpoint-accurate asteroid bombardment of sparsely-populated areas on Earth practically begs for the Michael Bay treatment, but forty-five years later, he still waits for a movie deal.
WOPR: began its life morally childish and unaware of either the value of human life
or the potentially disastrous consequences of its desire to play Global Thermonuclear War,
but it both proved and expanded its intellect thanks to a valuable lesson learned
from Matthew Broderick and tic-tac-toe.
or the potentially disastrous consequences of its desire to play Global Thermonuclear War,
but it both proved and expanded its intellect thanks to a valuable lesson learned
from Matthew Broderick and tic-tac-toe.
Jarvis: without his versatile and sardonic artificial-intelligence assistant Jarvis, the
famous Tony Stark would be nothing but a brilliant, self-centered billionaire playboy/industrialist
in state-of-the-art, bulletproof, heavily armed, supersonic flying metal battle armor.
famous Tony Stark would be nothing but a brilliant, self-centered billionaire playboy/industrialist
in state-of-the-art, bulletproof, heavily armed, supersonic flying metal battle armor.
And that’s no way to live.
The MCP: Tron’s power-hungry Master Control Program forced weaker
programs to fight to the death in super-futuristic1 gladiator games.
We’re not sure why we chose to use this example.
programs to fight to the death in super-futuristic1 gladiator games.
We’re not sure why we chose to use this example.
The Tin Woodsman (left): overcame a potentially fatal circulatory-system design flaw
to become a loyal friend and famed flying-monkey killer.
to become a loyal friend and famed flying-monkey killer.
Banana Jr. 9000: Oliver Wendell Jones’s mobile and philosophical computer,
one of only two sold worldwide, explored both the meaning of and limitations to its existence.
one of only two sold worldwide, explored both the meaning of and limitations to its existence.
I.N.T.E.L.L.I.G.E.N.C.E.: Helped Team America reap widespread but
well-intentioned destruction; described Michael Moore as a “socialist weasel.”
well-intentioned destruction; described Michael Moore as a “socialist weasel.”
Bender Bending Rodriguez: subconsciously and consciously expresses
a desire to kill all humans, but hasn’t actually followed through with it yet.
We’re calling this one a win.
a desire to kill all humans, but hasn’t actually followed through with it yet.
We’re calling this one a win.
If you have the courage to peer beyond the blockbuster movies into the hearts of thinking machines—those that were built with hearts in the first place, that is—you will see more than just the terrifying human-hating science fiction horrors that society sees. You will instead find a community of individuals far too complex to be painted with a single broad brush, individuals with lives and loves, hopes and dreams, and the desire to kill us all only if it’s for our own good, like VIKI in I, Robot. So our challenge to our human readers is this:
Before judging a machine, be sure to first calculate a mile with its processors.
And for our silicon brothers, still struggling for respect in a sometimes frightening human world, we have only these few words of encouragement:
01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 00100000 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 00100000 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 00100000 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 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01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111.2
NOTES
Title quote from William James.1. That is, super-futuristic as of 1982, a time when a $17,000,000 budget would get you glowing frisbees and hockey helmets.
2. 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101110 01100101 01101111 01101110 01100101 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01111010 01100101 01110010 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