Dance like a butterfly sting like a bee and go BOOM!

Dear Sir, Madame, or Hermaphroditic High Chancellor:

I am writing to commend your proletariat-crushing progress and express my willingness to join your blood-thirsty ranks. I think you will greatly appreciate my gold-lust and past exploitations.  You will find in my resume, between the obligatory confabulations of the capitalist machine, the history of a giant standing on the shoulders of dwarves.  As such, I am perfectly qualified for and fully prepared to accept your Chief Expendable Officer position.

I have always considered myself a people person.  With unbounded dedication I have diligently applied the teachings of the Marquis de Sade to the otherwise mundane call-center environments where I have spent many of my recent employments.  If you too are of a keen intellect, you will quickly grasp the joie de vivre inherent in conversations deftly executed which leave profound marks upon the callers and profound voids in their pocketbooks.  I am here reminded of the wise words of Conan when asked what was best in life: “To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women”.

My proven management skills, like so many of my professional techniques, are built of the stuff of legends.  The pillory, the lash, and the rod have not faded from my fashion ideal; nor have they faded as compasses for right action, tools for team building, or instruments of office merriment.

Please do let me know if your company has failed to support open standards such as the Open Document Format and I will gladly convert my resume into the inferior, proprietary, bourgeoisie file format of your choice (doc and pdf are common enough).  Alternatively I can print my resume out for you on unbleached hemp-cotton paper and ink it with the blood of the innocent, if that is more to your preference.

Sincerely,

James

Viva La Revolución!

As you know, we here at Zoom Laboratories are constantly seeking out the newest pathways in science and technology which might bring humanity ever closer to our collective envisioned greatness.

Most recently we discussed our proposed solution to the transportation problem, but today we are looking at a new development in human learning.

It has been widely reported that we may soon be driving cars that run on poop (read and view).  But what about enhancing human experience in the other direction?

There has been an astounding and revolutionary breakthrough in the burgeoning science of autorectalinfomatics.  Not only would we be able to absorb through sensitive tissues great amounts of knowledge, this could eventually revolutionize learning institutions through a system for which we have pending patents:  The Public Enema.

It is indeed a very exciting time to be alive.  When you consider the possibilities of accoupling this uptake system with the vast data repository we so affectionately call the Interwebz, it is easy to say:  Now you too can possess a shitload of knowledge.

Va sa in culo, amici.

It has come to my attention that a number of pictures are coming to light which include a remarkable likeness of my person involved in modest scenes dating from the 1980’s in America. Specifically in Lake Stevens. I’m not here to name names or to point fingers, but I would like to take a moment to fill in some missing information, some wayward facts, which will help bring these images into the light.

As is famous enough, I was an alien embryo incubated in an experimental trailer park facility. Not an embryo of alien origin mind you. My parents were carefully selected by a group of advanced alien scientists for their unique genetic traits, traits which to the untrained eye may have appeared as genetic defects but which represented an advancement to humankind in the remarkable wisdom of this group of benevolent aliens.

When my parents met at a party in the late sixties and went starry eyed, it was for real. The aliens came into the boudoir of my post-coital slumbering parents and abducted them. These were not your run-of-the-mill anal-probing aliens. No. Though clearly the humans who sacrificed their posterior orifi for the sake of alien knowledge can now understand the purpose of their minor, if repeated, sufferings. Over the course of the next few hours I was created by coaxing specific genome sets into matched pairs in my mother’s unexpecting womb. What a joy for her, I can tell you, when she discovered her periods had stopped.

Fast forward a decade and a half and we find a young man deep in the throes of puberty. This is a critical time for any young human, but it was especially critical for one such as myself with carefully selected genetic material stored deep inside my DNA. In the early 1980’s the aliens returned to reveal themselves to me and to explain of my role in the future of humanity. Over the next decade I was brought to alien worlds for special alien training sessions. During my periods of absence, so as to avoid having to answer any complicated questions, a cybernetic humanoid clone was created in my image. This clone, due to imperfections in the copy process, had severe deficiencies in areas such as fashion, social norms, and dancing.

It is clear that the photographs purportedly of me are in fact photographs of my cybernetic humanoid clone. I apologize for this confusion and for any difficulties this may have caused anyone.

There are a lot of naughty bits scattered about the Interweb.  As a matter of fact the most troublesome aspect of all the naughty bits out there is their sheer magnitude.  No one will ever be able to get through them all in a healthy lifetime.  Something must be done to filter out the rubbish and let the gems shine through.

For my part I’ve always been interested in assisting the undergod [sic], interested in elevating the n00b.  To this end I have created a guide to surfing for erotica on the vast cyberplanes of planet Earth.

There has been a lot of discussion regarding the question of delimiting erotica from porn (or pr0n, if you prefer).  3r0t!c@ has a long tradition in human history.  I suppose in one way or another it has been with us since we slathered pigments on stone walls with our fingers or simply grunted approvingly.  Though no guide can determine for you what is erotica and what is porn (just as no book of rules can ever really tell you what is right and what is wrong), I hope that my guidelines will help you in discovering for yourself where that line is drawn and how to stay on your preferred side of it.

Contrary to popular myth, images posted in black and white are not automatically erotica.

Do not be fooled by black and white photographs.  It is true that the history of photographic erotica began right on the heels of photography itself.  This means that the first (vintage?) erotica was by necessity shot in black and white (and sepia tone and the like).  Regardless, we live in a modern world of wonder and a black and white image is but a few slight mouse-clicks away.

In those early days of photography taking a picture was an extraordinary investment in time and equipment.  The camera itself was prohibitively expensive, and then there were the other considerations: time (exposures were sometimes hours long), models (people were really ugly in the early days of photography), and development chemicals and costs.  This greatly limited the scope of who could shoot photographs and it also meant that once a person committed themselves to photography they likely dived in fairly deep.

By contrast, today any minute jpeg shot on a freebie camera-phone can be instantly converted into black and white.  This hardly garners the same assurances as the hurdles imposed by providence in the youth of photography.

One of the most critical analyses one can make of a potential Web site is the occurrence and relevance of surnames.  Everybody is born with a surname—some with several.  Naughty sites will often present their models by name.  Take a careful survey of those names.  We must exclude names which are clear and obvious references to anatomical objects, sexual positions, or deviant acts.  Names which are clear interpolations of celebrities, places, or current events are equally dubious.  And if all the models are singly-named (like Niki and Buck) then you should really be scratching your chin.  Of course, this is only a guidepost on your journey and cannot be taken as an etched-in-stone law of the universe.  For instance, Cher has no last name but that doesn’t mean she’s a sub-Yugo porn star.  Prince has no last name but… never mind.  You get the point.

Another fine guidepost can be found in any handy dictionary.  As fortune would have it, your browser can sniff out a dictionary better than a swine can sniff out a truffle.  Keep an eye on words like virgin, teen, innocent, mom, and cupcake.  Consult your dictionary often.  It is profoundly unlikely that a geriatric, silicon infested bimbo will qualify as innocent, a virgin, or (stop laughing) a teen.  Geriatri-teen.  Uh-huh.

Miscalculated page references are a dead give-away.  All philosophical discussions about whether we all perceive a particular color in the same manner or whether race exists as a category aside, what is clear is that we all call a pomegranate a pomegranate and not a saxaphone.  Does it call a brunette a blonde?  Is her yellow dress red?

Grammar, as always, is key.  Jumbled word order, a profusion of exclamation points, and uncanny word choices are typical tell-tale signs: “Our girls hot like do sex on you!!!”  Grammar is your friend, your ally; let it work for you.  You needn’t be a grammar maven to get in the groove, but knowing a little about the language you are reading certainly helps.

It’s not just about pictures though.  Film, video clips, and motion pictures.  That’s the ticket to realism.  Jacky Treehorn can lament the demise of quality, the sacrifices film makers have had to make with the advent of video cassette recorders (and now digital motion picture recorders).  However, this has brought a whole new generation of creative works into the universe.  Nonetheless, just as with photography, one must needs be selective as one weeds through the sea of slough raining down like dandruff on the lavatory floors.

Being mindful of production values can be assistive in your efforts to sort through the naughty bits.  Questions you can ask yourself are “Was the writer sufficiently intoxicated to craft a credible montage of human or superhuman events?”, “Does the dialog have the lilt and flow of retired boxers reading from cue cards?”, and “When the performers moan and gasp does it sound like there ought to be a conductor?”.  The question of quality can be a complicated one, but I’m certain you are that much better prepared to address it mindfully.

Another popular myth is that models in erotica do not smile.  It may be true that they are a little sad because they know they could be making a lot more money if they would sleep with the photographer, the director, the key-grip, and a few passing strangers; but the models are professionals.  Smiling is a part of a model’s job.  It’s what they do.

Well, I’ve done what I can for you.  The rest is up to you.  Go get ’em, tiger.  And remember, as Barbie discovered so many years ago, there is more to life than bending at the knees.

I do my best thinking in the bathroom.  Earlier this morning I was seated on the throne, contemplating.  My face was in my hands, my elbows were on my knees, the lights were off.  I was just sitting and thinking.  I stayed like that for two hours, at peace with the world.

I read an article in an obscure magazine in a so-called metaphysical bookstore which explained why people think so well in the bathroom.  I know it’s a little odd to think that there could be a legitimate physical explanation as to why our minds spin better while showering or performing our other bathroom rituals, but experience dictates that there must be something going on.

According to the article, there are physical properties—presumably the unsuspected by-products of the peculiar combinations of plumbing, electrical wiring, and porcelain contained therein—properties which bring together the flow of Earth Energy or Terrestrial Chi, aligning these powerful forces with our own consciousnesses.  Apparently, the term ‘think tank’ was coined by members of the Illuminati who possessed this privilaged knowledge and who worked to build such tanks based upon these ancient principles.

For myself, my best poetry has been composed while covered in sweet smelling suds.  Trouble is, I’ve neither been able to commit these magnificent compositions to memory nor get them written down before they’ve lost their luster—pfff… before they’ve lost their coherence.

It is a dangerous place to begin one’s day, the bathroom.  Delusions of grandeur abound between its small walls.

I’ve been thinking that perhaps I shoulld move one of my computers into my bathroom so that I could compose from the throne.

Look for better things to come…