What lasers can do.

Clearly these cats need no explanation. I just pray to the alien lizard kings of space heaven that my blog absence is the same.

But explain I must. Because Twittling and Facebookery don't sufficiently satiate my narcisism and need to read my own stupid in black and white.

To quote Chaucer*, shit has been busy as fuck. And I miss writing. So in an effort to assimilate my nerding addiction, I got an "app" from the invisible laser net for my iPod..and this is my first official post using an electro-demon science I don't even pretend to begin to understand.

(fig a: Chaucer. Yes, Geoffrey, I'm talking to you.)

This iPod is iBananas. Cheers to all of you bearded millionaires for inventing a fucking Tricorder for lazy couch jockeys like me. I heart the shit out of you sexy style. Thank God someone was studying Math* during my drug and alcohol phase. It's good to know that humanity isn't only comprised of people like me who get nosebleeds from looking at numbers.

(fig. b: The Science of Mathery.)

Steve jobs should have a shrine built to honor him for coming up with this fucking thing. It wouldn't be hard to make that happen. All we'd need is some Baron-type individual (a Harkonnen will do) with stupid-fat, Scrooge McDuck-level Benjamins in the vault to airdrop a few hundred crates of iPhones over Brooklyn. Within days, the remaining hipsters that manage to survive the subsequent city-wide riots will build a magnificent, glowing white monolith the size of Voltron's* penis in honor of their turtlenecked lord. Oh, the humanity. I can see it now...a giant iPod covered in the skulls of the non-believers. Those infidels who refused to pay tribute to the one they call Steve. It would be the iPod of all iPods: capable of holding 48 Teraflops of Indie Rock, Baile Funk, and Tuvan throat singing mp3's yet would still be big enough that you could imprison your favorite bands and keep them hostage inside, forcing them to play Sinatra covers and Daft Punk remixes all the while staring down the business end of a Shepard Fairy edition AK-47. A fitting homage to the Lord of all Nerds. Even Borg would cry like Jimmy fucking Swaggart in the presence of such a thing.

(fig c: Voltron, pictured here at home. Notice the space shorts and the sword. Makes you wonder what he's overcompensating for.)

Ok, I guess that doesn't make sense. (Plus my grammar is terrible, but that's more of a blog-wide epidemic here at M4H.) The truth is, that besides Voltron's Mom, no one except those weird hyper kids who fly the lions that make up Voltron have probably ever even seen his giant robot penis. So to mention it at all is inane at best, and borderline retarded at worst. Frruk it. Who cares if it makes sense. None of this does. I can't even figure out how Ice works. Trying to wrap my mind around the whole process of internetting is befuddling at best. Thinking about it gives me cramps between my ears.

But seriously.. take a second and think about how fucking weird all this inter-connectivity is. It's pretty mindblowing.

That's all I can think of right now. Because I'm blogging this from a shiny glowing rectangle in the back of a bumpy taxicab while tearing through a rainstorm, dodging drunks, listening to Hindi techno, pushing 55 on the Queensboro bridge and I'm suddenly wondering if Global Warming is too blame for this awful weather. Maybe I'll Google it. Jesus. Robot Jesus. Life is so futuristic. I feel like Blade Runner. Except I hate running and don't trust knives.

I just looked out the smudged car window and saw another nerd in another speeding cab looking at an iPod just like mine. Robots in disguise, that's all I see everywhere I look. I feel like my insides are made of cogs and sprockets. And chocolate covered butter sugar.

My thumbs are tired. Ok, so now to post..hope this works..if it does, and these words somehow manage to reach your nerd-thirsty retinas, allow me to express my happiness at being back among the monkey collective. Good to be back in the saddle. Now let's ride this fucker into oblivion.

PS: Cheers, Unbeatable. You held it down like Lobot* on Cloud City. If I knew where to get, or could even afford a cape, I'd totally buy it for you, eventually mailing it to your domicile after asking for your address 57 times (and losing it 56 times). Realistically speaking, I'll most likely fax a picture of a caped you to your local Kinkos, then ask you to take some personal time out of your busy day to go down and wait in line for a "big surprise" that's "totally worth the wait". If only I could witness the underwhelmed look on your face when you see my crayon drawing of you with two thumbs up and a "I Rock!" thought bubble jutting off your poorly-drawn, cartoon visage.

(fig d: Lobot, aka Lobeezy, Cloud City's first white rapper.)

And if for some reason this little rant doesn't work its way through those fiberoptic science tubes beneath the rivers of concrete all around us, allow me to say this in advance: Fuck You, Apple. Fuck you and your cruel, mocking piano music that constantly teases me for not being able to afford your glorious statements of financially-stable Hipstery. Screw off, iTunes. Go download your ass inside your face. You know what? If this doesn't post, I'm totally going to ask a nerd to show me how to download a middle finger App. Then I'll hop in a gypsy cab, drive up 5th avenue, use it to e-flip off the sweaty tourist horde that plagues the Apple store, snap an iPhoto of it, email it to Steve Jobs's Twitter caddy, and finally, in the floweriest of words I can extract from my grey matter, I'll politely demand that he fax it to Mr. Jobs's Gulfstream with the motherfucking iSwiftness that only a bored nerd armed with new technology and a general hatred of modern life could wield.

Phew. Ok. That's enough. Now my thumbs are really tired. Ok, so now..I..press this button? Here goes nothing. And by nothing I mean something I don't understand at all. Cheers, friends. I'm in your internet, making the lasers.