The United Nations Children’s Fund (for Kalashnikovs)

A couple of days ago I was quietly sitting in a cafe with a small group of friends, avoiding the waitress who was trying to hustle me some coffee (I was out for fags on that particular day). As we lay on the terrace under the less-than-scorching sun, a young girl (about seven) appeared out of nowhere and asked us, in well-rehearsed terms, if we’d care to buy a postcard from her. Our initial response was, of course, a resounding “no”.

Upon further elaboration though it became clear that she was selling UNICEF cards, the benefits from the sale of which go to a fund used for buying vaccines for third world kids (or AK-47s for freedom fighters, as I like to imagine). Now, because she was evidently unaccustomed to scrutiny on the part of potential customers, it took our group some time to extract all the information we needed to decide upon whether to follow through with the transaction.

So it was that, after some relentless interrogation, she managed to blurt out the purpose of her current affair. Unable to articulate the disease the inoculation was supposed to prevent, I annoyedly started naming random illnesses until I hit gold with “yellow fever” (the process was not long – I started alphabetically, but from the back).

Deeply moved by the poor salesmanship and the stuttering of the clearly unqualified agent, some people of our group came up with a whole two bucks for a carefully selected card, which depicted – oh the surprise – a sunflower. I on the other hand, having no heart-strings to tug at, simply observed the transaction in silent judgement.

How cunning of UNICEF, to send innocent young children to do their dirty work for them. All the while this young girl, barely able to walk, was running around the town, the other UNICEF employees were probably busy enjoying all the perks that come with adult life in their offices – perks that this young miss will have to wait another quarter of a century to taste. So we probably have the UNICEF station chief, banging a hooker in his office, the UNICEF field-photographer, taking snapshots of sunflowers (and banging a hooker in the field) and the UNICEF aid-workers, passing out postcards and/or inoculating children in fucked up countries (and banging the inhabitants of the said countries).

The former (and undoubtedly accurate) account of UNICEF employees however were not the reason why I flat out ignored the postcard-girl. While my friends can now spend the rest of the week staring at a shitty shot of a completely common flower, I will be spending my two bucks on cheap beer (or one of those two-dollar whores I keep hearing about).

Still, in retrospect I somewhat regret my decision to refrain from buying that card. If I was presented with the same choice right here and now, I actually would buy one. I would then proceed to sending the very same card to some generic third world child.

The card would look something like this:

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Indiana Jones and the Who Gives A Fuck Anymore

Recently I happened to catch the latest installment of the Indiana Jones franchise on TV. As with most Hollywood productions these days, I flat out ignored the film when it came out. But now, after having seen it, I must admit it was not as horrible as I expected. Allow me to elaborate.

It is common knowledge that CGI is here to stay, and that more often than not it is grossly abused. “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” is no exception. Sure, previous Indy movies have been generous with ridiculous plot devices, but the latest sequel takes “jumping the shark” (or rather, “flying the fridge”) to a whole new level. So it is that we see Indy’s son engaged in an extended swordfight jumping between to jeeps speeding through a curiously flat and strangely accessible Amazonian jungle. More worryingly, at the offset the viewer is forced to put up with anthropomorphic gophers overlooking the Indy versus KGB showdown. All of this is, for all traits and purposes, rather imbecilic.

But let us give Spielberg the benefit of doubt for a second. Take, for instance, any preceding Indy film. Weren’t they all ridiculous, over-the-top and frivolous? In “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”, we are forced to buy into the Mayan-extraterrestrial connection. Yet, in “The Last Crusade” we are forced to believe in the existence of Jesus. In “Temple of Doom”, we are affirmed that jumping out of a crashing plane on a life raft can save your life. In “Raiders of the Lost Ark” we are expected to totally not realize that Indy is gratuitously using his revolver in uneven fights only because Harrison Ford is suffering from crippling diarrhea.

“One wrong move and Indy’s dignity gets it!“

Still, I must admit that “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” cranks the dial way up to “bat-shit insane”. In one of the manliest scenes in cinema history, Indy is shown surviving a full on nuke blast simply by hiding in a refrigerator.

Pro’s: integrated MP3 player, shields from nuclear blast. Con’s: Only room for one six-pack.

Now, Spielberg went to great lengths to make his audience believe that something like this could be even remotely possible, and so we see the camera awkwardly zooming in on the fridge door, assuring us that it is led-insulated and thus nuke-safe. As painful as this was to watch, it should be noted that Spielberg wasn’t terribly off course.

Granted, if even a relatively small Hiroshima-scale warhead were to hit your city, it would probably mess up your daily routine to some extent. But still, the perils of nuclear warfare have been somewhat exaggerated over the past six decades. With some luck, it is possible to survive a nuclear explosion even close to the hypocenter of the blast (whether or not you’ll be horribly mutilated is another matter altogether).

It doesn’t kill, just maims (unless when cornered or protecting it’s young).

All in all, survival in the case of a nuclear attack is closely related to several factors, such as the type and yield of the weapon, the peculiarities of the materials used in the fusion/fission process, detonation height, landscape, weather, etc. A ten megaton weapon would probably not fall in the category of “bestest things ever”, but in the case of a “smaller” device, death is not a hundred percent certain (instead, it stands at a carefree ninety-nine percentile).

Imagine that you find yourself well in range of an impotent twenty kiloton blast, perhaps only, say, six hundred meters from the hypocenter. Now suppose you are in a house that is not built of shit. Let’s also throw in a bathtub. With good reflexes and/or acute awareness of the political climate around you, you could dive into the bath and pull it over your head just in time before the blast wreaks all kinds of hell to everything around you. You might just survive. Although, if strange things start growing out of your body, it is perhaps best to see a doctor.

Thus, Indy surviving a 50′s era nuke is not entirely implausible. Unfortunately, Spielberg didn’t really think of a bathtub and instead went with the led-lined fridge – not exactly a survivalist’s shelter-of-choice. What is more baffling is that he had the damn thing hurled through the air a great distance, violently roll down a hill and still somehow managing to inflict zero damage on the visibly rheumatic protagonist.

Actually, I would argue that the gross misunderstanding of physics and the generous use of special effects are not the weakest point of the movie – instead, it is the plot. If you compare it to “The Last Crusade” then it is essentially a replica of the previous film. You get the dysfunctional relationship between Indy and a close family member, a friend-turned-enemy-turned-friend-turned-dead-by-greed, you get the antagonist falling victim to her own inflated ambitions, the intense high speed chase with characters undecided on which vehicle they should remain and even the retarded sidekick who cannot avoid falling prisoner even if he tried.

So what’s the verdict? Despite the self-referential elements, the CGI gophers and “the little nuke that couldn’t”, “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” almost makes for a great pop-corn movie. Almost, because if there’s one thing everybody hates it’s the retarded greaser who can’t go five minutes without blurting out “choo gotta problem wit’ dat?”

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The Shuttle Shuffle

As I’ve mentioned before, one of the things I expect from my fellow men is to be left the fuck alone unless they have something I might be interested in. Sadly, few people today understand the the concept of “minding your own business”.

A couple of days ago I found myself yet again embarking on a tedious two-plus hour intercity bus ride. I rarely enjoy covering long distances in anything slower than a jet. I require fairly specific equipment in order to take any kind of pleasure in road tripping – equipment that includes vast quantities of alcohol, combat gear and at least one projectile firing weapon. The shuttle service offers none of those.

My situation was made no less horrible by the fact that the shuttle was completely stuffed. Miraculously, despite the bus having been completely full, I had managed to secure myself a nice and solitary window seat. Somewhat less miraculously, it didn’t take long for some asshole mother with her asshole daughter to jump on the bus at the last second. They looked around worriedly, then looked at their tickets, then around again. I instantly knew what they were doing. I also knew, since all seats but mine were taken, that I was going to be engaged. Shit.

I have never understood why some people so desperately need to find their designated seats. Seriously, who the fuck cares. It doesn’t matter if you find your own spot or occupy a random one, you always have an equal chance of ending up next to some obnoxious dickhead. I would’ve understood her claim if the seat had been in the back of the shuttle, as people in the rear are more likely to survive a potential high-speed crash. But my seat, my precious island of tranquility in this rolling pile of manure, was way up front in what is colloquially known as the “high fatality zone”. Alas, presumably because she hadn’t been slapped around for a while, she stomped her feet insisting my relocation until I was forced to comply.

This time I was lucky though. Every once in a while you see assholes of the highest order who, by pursuing their retarded principles, make everybody in the bus shuffle around until everybody has ended up with their designated seat. Why this is necessary I cannot say, but can you remember the last time you played a shuffle puzzle on the web? Yeah, exactly. Nobody likes those things. Why? Because they’re fucking shit.

Is it a bird? – Yes. In a way.

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The Power Hour

If you have spent the last couple of weeks actively scavenging the more barren parts of the Internet for random and superficially significant information, you should know that the dreaded Earth Hour is upon us once again. Every year thousands of people turn off the lights in their homes for one hour, in an attempt to alleviate global climate problems. How all this is going to help save the environment is unclear, but their enthusiasm is commendable (if nothing else).

I took myself the liberty of critically going through the videos attached to the Earth Hour Facebook page, and stumbled upon this thing:

For those of you who did not immediately burst into violent convulsions, allow me to put this video into context. One of the men appearing in the clip is David Icke. Icke is a former BBC sports presenter turned writer. What does he write about? Well, after a psychic told him he had a special purpose on this Earth, he went ahead and assumed this special purpose lie in his destiny to uncover the foul conspiracy of this world being ruled by giant talking space-lizards from the Draco constellation. These reptiloids are invisible to the naked eye (of course) and feed on our evil thoughts.

“Bring me the heart of an innocent child!”

This is another good example of why you shouldn’t make life-altering decisions based on the claims of someone who makes wild guesses while yelling at a crystal ball.

Other people in the video include “doctor” Deepak Chopra and Manly P. Hall, who, despite his awesome name, is absolutely full of shit. One interesting thing I found was that both Icke and Chopra call themselves “public speakers”. And if there’s one thing history’s taught us, it’s that we must be extremely wary of “public speakers”.

I’m just saying…

Overall the video is quite painful to watch. It takes Einstein’s theories and then butchers them beyond recognition. According to modern physics, we are indeed made up of energy, but this is not something you might want to convey to the macro-level realities of everyday life. Because if I were to punch you in the nose, your primary concern would most certainly not be the processes by witch a trillion energy particles just hugged one another, but rather the processes by witch your face became very solidly broken.

In addition to the gross misrepresentation of the physical universe, the video also makes use of all the New Age visual cliche’s – there is a shot of the Milky Way, a close-up of a human eye, a tortoise, a bird and a tiger – all set to a song by Enya. Honestly, you could not make it worse.

Maybe with more tigers?

Sure, most of the people participating in the Earth Hour event couldn’t care less about all the New Age nonsense, but this doesn’t mean they’re any less ridiculous. So, instead of switching off all the lights and appliances I will be turning on every TV, computer and water heater I can get my hands on and decorate the entire house with thousand gigawatt deluxe christmas lights. This year’s Earth Hour will also provide me with the opportune moment for breaking in my homemade fission reactor.

It’s what nature would’ve wanted.

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The Good, The Bad and the Moral

A short while ago I was sitting in a cafe with a friend. I reckon we must’ve been talking about our hopes, dreams and other similar nonsense when I suddenly uttered the words: “I want to rule the world”. I said this with only a vague smile, so it wasn’t until after an uncomfortable silence that she hesitatingly started laughing. It was one of those poorly feigned laughs and her eyes betrayed sentiments that were somewhere between mild confusion and slowly building dread. To ease her mind I started laughing too, and that was the end of that.

I say this sentence fairly often, and every time I try to pass it of as a non sequitur or a mere whim in a flood of seemingly random tomfoolery. But I really do want to rule the world.

The only thing I am not certain about is whether my rule would be benevolent or tyrannical. I think this has a lot to do with my relativist viewpoint on morale. How do we decide whether something is right or wrong? I tend to view morality as a construct of society, serving only to maintain a certain order of things, a status quo, if you will. I don’t think, thus, that there is anything that can be intrinsically wrong. Yes, intrinsic would hereby seem to refer to the hidden social structures, but if we are to understand the word in layman’s terms, then it tends to refer to “a natural sense” of sorts. Which is fine, if you’re the sort of person who believes in fairy tales.

This is not to say I would not hesitate to commit “atrocities”. I would, in fact (which is exactly why I’m not in prison right now). But hypothetically speaking, if I were to be bestowed with a power upon all creatures inhibiting this planet, I cannot say I would not be extremely tempted to exercise devastation on at least some of them.

For what it’s worth, I would find a justification for it – a justification which you would not find disagreeable in itself. It might even seem “moral”. The method may repulse you but I am more flexible in that sense. But because of my agnostic, non-antagonistic posture towards a Grand Architect figure I have for the present time adopted, and the inherent repressive measures characteristic of that figure, I might be disinclined to do certain things. But for reasons of “morale”? Hardly.

I would love to know how much of what people do, or rather, don’t do, is dependent on fear, rather than arbitrary categories of right and wrong. What would happen if tomorrow it were announced that everybody is entitled to a life of eternal bliss in heaven regardless of what they have done in this world? Would they carry on with the nine-to-five routine or wreak all sorts of hell on their fellow men?

For the time being I do not rule the world. It is unlikely this will change, because I am not willing to do anything to attain Lordship over Earth. There is too much trouble involved, and the actual pay-offs are negligible. So, I will stop here, with a reflection on how wonderful it is that I can turn anything into a joke and never really draw any lines in the sand – including with things no-one can afford to be serious about.

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