Climbing a 50,000 foot mountain

Before you lies a mountain. It is large and filled with craggily crevices. What do you do?

>Go around the mountain.

You are unable to go around the mountain. You don't have the bus fare. What do you do?

>Go under the mountain.

Your plastic bucket and spade break at your first attempt. What do you do?

>Climb the mountain.

Correct.


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So, yes. Completely off-season, in direct competition with nobody in particular, I'm planning to add 50,000 words to my novel a la Nanowrimo. I haven't been putting the effort in recently, instead allowing myself to be distracted by Internet memes and Portal 2, so I'm hoping May will kick-start my writing once more and, hopefully, bring me towards the final chapters of my novel earlier than predicted.

Enough about this, however. What you really came here for was deeply moving songs about evil super-computers trapped inside of potatOs:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnPk62BeJ-o

The cake is a lie,
Paul.

The Quantifiable Batman Theorem

I have been pondering heavily this week - often while sipping coffee and staring out at the garden in wistful contemplation - that many of the English language's greatest literary creations would be greatly enhanced by the inclusion of Batman. I can think of no novel, play or poem that he couldn't improve merely by his presence. Observe:

Juliet: Romeo, Romeo, where art thou Romeo? Doth mine eyes deceive me? Is that you, my beloved, standing beneath mine balcony?

Batman: (gravelly voice) No. I'm Batman.

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The Perriwinkle girls were greatly taken in by Mr. Darcy's handsome yet mysterious associate.
"I say, Mr. Darcy," Susan asked "Who is that fellow walking behind you dressed in a full leather body suit - all the rage in London, or so I hear?"
"I'm Batman." growled Mr. Darcy's friend, causing many a woman to flutter her fan with apoplexy.

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"I have called you here, mssrs," Poirot exclaimed as he stroked his luxurious moustache "because the killer is in this very room. It was none other than..."
Suddenly the window flew open with a crash. A mysterious dark-caped stranger leapt into the room, withdrew a batarang and threw it at the butler, Jenkins, knocking him unconscious.
"Mssr Batman!" Poirot exclaimed "Pray tell, how did you know it was the butler? I, the greatest detective mind in all the world, took days to figure it out!"
"Bat Computer." Batman growled "It performs three thousand butler-checks per second AND it plays Tetris when I get bored."


On an unrelated topic, I'm considering growing a luxurious moustache. It sounds dapper.

:-Paul.

Cereal Killer

The advertising industry seem to believe that people are incapable of handling their breakfast in the morning. "Can you handle the extreme crunch of Crunchios?" they ask. "Dare you challenge the awesome taste of Cinnemon Swirls?"

I can just imagine the scene now; a tired old man sitting in his armchair, a bowl of Crunchios cupped in one hand and a spoon in the other. He lifts the utensil to his mouth, deposits the food, pulls it away and bites down. Suddenly his eyes widen. The hand holding the spoon begins to tremble. The bowl crashes to the ground, spilling it's contents across the carpet. Concerned, the man's daughter runs into the room.
"Father, what's wrong?"
"These Crunchios... I... I just can't handle this."
"Crunchios? Oh father, haven't you seen the adverts!"
"I... I thought I could take it. These crunchy balls of wheat made with honey and cinnemon... they seemed so tasty."
"Oh you stubborn, foolish old man!" the daughter cries, maternally clutching her father's head against her warm bussom "Don't worry. We'll get you bran flakes. They'll make everything right."
But they do not. His senses dulled by the awesome taste of Crunchios, the old man goes through life with his senses dead to everything else but the lingering taste of honey and wheat...

That's why I prefer Frosties. They're great.

:-Paul.