After a brief debriefing and debunking a bunch of my worries, Dr. Jacobin led me down to the bunker where the study was being held and briefly introduced me to my bunkmate, Bunky Briefowicz.
“Hi, Bunky,” I said.
“Hi, I’m Bunky.”
“A little thick in the head, this one!” I ribbed lightheartedly.
“Bunky is part of a different study than yours,” said Jacobin.
“A study about short-term memory loss,” I inferred.
“Look, I’m no doctor, but I’ve got a good feeling about my diagnosis.”
“Not only am I a doctor, I’m Bunky’s doctor. He’s in a study for people with a rare neurological condition that forces them to parrot back two-word sentences they hear bisected by the word “I’m.”
“No, I’m kidding,” said Bunky.
“Why, Bunky, you scamp!”
“Please don’t mock him,” said Dr. J.
“I’m I’m not.”
“Hey, doc, you better check him for stutters, too!”
Dr. Jacobin got so flustered that he climbed into a giant centrifuge and took his own life. I could crack wise about how the difference between religion and science is that in religion, suicide is a sin, but in science, it’s a spin—but, whatever your beliefs, I’m sure you’ll agree that suicide is nothing to be Jacobin’ about.
Bunky told me he was going back to the room. It’s not like he couldn’t talk. He just had that one weird tick. Anyway, it was around that time that Bunky went back to the room.
A few hours later my new doctor was named Dr. Mulroney. She had legs for days. She had a buxom bosom. She had a lot of hair on her head and it was brown—the color of gravy. She had a face was very pretty—at least, to look at. She was, to put it bluntly, a girl doctor.
Overall, she was like a five. Maybe a five and a half on a good day.
All she said was, “Hello, sir,” but it was enough to send me reeling.
I stammered, searching for the right words. Introduce yourself, you lovesick goon!
“Oh, you must be Bunky. I apologize. My name is Dr. Fatbutt. Pleased to meet you, Bunky.”
“Me? Oh, no, I’m the other guy. Bunky is in the room, as well as ugly. I’m the use-your-brain guy.”
“I see. Well, then, it seems we have our work cut out for us.” When you’re in love like I’d decided I was, every word the object of affection says is poetry, flushed with red and drenched with honey. You could swim in words, lacquered as they are in rosewater. My love spoke, and the words came to me like fireflies to a firefly brothel. “How much did that old tiny-pricked pervert Dr. Jacobin explain to you before he did us all a favor and jumped into the centrifuge?”
“All he really said was that humans only use ten percent of their brains and he had some new miracle drug called UNLOKK that was going to revolutionize not only neuroscience but, the human experience. It would fundamentally alter it and perception itself would be so radically altered that we wouldn’t even recognize our world but we would understand it.”
“Let’s get started, then, shall we?” I said, yanking the clipboard out of her hands.
“I’m in love with you.”
“Go to bed. We’re going to start drugging you tomorrow.”
…to be kkontinued
My Guest Today Is Dan Gagliardi, episode 3: Dan appears on an extrasode of Are You Dan Gagliardi? hosted by Dave Gallardo. Dave asks Dan some big questions. Dan gives some big answers. Episode sponsors include AllCoffee.cult, the cult with the coffee.
this is so horrible that we even need to discuss this sort of thing. capital punishment is a crime in/of itself. [knocks back a handful of skittles]
Please reblog/retweet to spread awareness.
“Humans use only ten percent of their brains.”
This single sentence started me on a journey that I would never forget—not even if I could only use six percent of my brain. I was 22 at the time (almost 23, as the baker who was baking my birthday cake well knew, cursing my name in French) and I was strapped for cash. I had bills piling up on top of other bills: phone bill, insurance bill, and apparently I’d been enrolled in college for four years. That was three bills right there, and I knew I had another one coming for the loan I took out to commission the baking of a giant layer cake frosted with gross stuff like cat food and toads. I hired the best baker in town to do it because one time I saw him on the street and said:
“Hey, I know you! You’re that baker, right?”
“Oui,” he said.
“Do something baker-y. Bake a cake! Bake a cake right now, if you’re so good!”
Then, noticing the crowd gathered around us, I tried to get a chant going. “Bake! A! Cake! Bake! A! Cake!” It was working!
“Qu’est-ce que cest!” said the baker.
The crowd was already whipped into stiff peaks of excitement at this point and, eager to chant, switched over to, “Qu’est-ce! Que! Cest! Qu’est-ce! Que! Cest! Qu’est-ce! Que! Cest!”
“You’re lucky they all speak French,” I screamed above the din of the crowd. With this, they switched over from chanting to rioting, screaming in fluent French, conjugated obscure verbs to arcane tenses for the sheer anarchic bliss of it. Storefronts locked their doors and barricaded their windows. Families piled into their bathtubs and hoped that would protect them. One man climbed a telephone pole and jumped down onto the hood of a car, breaking his femur. He was from out of town, and not really clear on how we did things here.
Anyway, this whole thing got stuck in my craw, and I blamed it all on that French guy, so I thought it’d be satisfying to make him bake a gross cake. I was right. I spent a lot of time imagining him making it. “Sacre bleu!” he’d say, spreading yet another layer of boiled warts and goblin guts with his thin spatula. Sacre bleu, indeed, creep.
Pretty soon, though, I’d be four bills high. With no way to pay them besides a full-time job, the money for which I needed to put toward opening my business where I harvest sunlight and sell it at a markup to solar panel users, I decided I’d offer my body to science.
I first met Dr. Jacobin only moments before I suggested he follow up each joke he told with “I’m just Jacobin’ with ya,” and only one fewer moments before he explained that he already did do that. This would prove to have no bearing on our relationship or his research. Dr. Jacobin was what’s known by some as a “neuroscientist,” and by others as a “shrink.”
“No, not a shrink,” he claimed.
“Look at you,” I said with a smirk, “you’re blushing.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are! You’re blushing because of how you’re a total shrink.”
“I’m not blushing. I’m on niacin.”
“Jesus, doc! Who do you think you are, taking narcotics on the job? Medicine’s Resident Bad Boy Dr. Gregory House, M.D.?” I would come to learn, in time, that niacin is not a narcotic.
“Niacin isn’t a narcotic.”
“Yes it is.”
“It’s a vitamin.”
“You’re being such a shrink right now.”
“Maybe I should find someone else for this study.”
“Whoa, buddy, hold on, I’m just Jacobin’ with ya.”
Dr. Jacobin explained to me what his study entailed. Something about the human brain, probably, since he was sticking electrodes to my head as he talked.
“I want to unlock the full potential of the human brain,” he said super seriously.
“Sounds chill.” I just needed to ease things up a bit. I didn’t work well with squares, and if he kept it up he’d be stuck deep in my craw. I doubted I had the kind of money to force another baker to bake me a giant retribution cake, much less the money to force a scientist to do it.
“Of course, there are some waivers we’ll need you to sign,” he said as he pressed a series of buttons on the machine to which the electrodes were attached.
“I don’t know, doc. I’m very hesitant to sign anything,” I said as the machine went PING and I signed some waivers.
To be kkontinued.
this guy fieri cake is slowly destroying my life
The latest masterpiece from Uncanny Valley Bakery
A POEM WRITTEN AND PERFORMED BY OUR WEBMASTER LARRY BJURD. HE USES MODERN WEBSITES AND TECHNOLOGY SO WE DON’T HAVE TO. THANKS LARRY.
Who are the Friends of Marty?
I’ve come up with some fun would-you-rather scenarios. These are perfect as icebreakers, or just as fun questions to ask people who are already your friends over dinner or cocktails. Think of them as “thought experiments!” Isn’t that fun? Thought experiments? Terrific stuff!
Would you rather have the power of invisibility OR give your eternal soul to the devil?
Would you rather have one million dollars OR have two million dollars BUT you have to give one million of it to the devil?
Would you rather know when you’re going to die OR have the devil find out first and tell you?
Would you rather find true love once OR run into the devil on the street twice?
Would you rather be famous OR watch a movie like The Devil’s Advocate, which stars a famous person, with the devil on the couch next to you?
Would you rather eat your favorite food OR an apple the devil suggested?
Would you rather be the greatest musician in the world but you’re deaf OR the best basketball player in the world BUT the devil is still better than you?
Would you rather go to the past OR go to Hell?
Would you rather live in your favorite fictional universe OR read fanfics about it written by the devil?
Would you rather spend a year on vacation in your favorite place OR watch a three-minute slideshow of the devil’s vacation photos?