The Grand Unified Theory of Rubean Mechanics

I like reading Scott Adams' blog on occasion. Much like Balph Eubanks, he's glib, amusing, and completely lacking in morality. Take, for example, his latest strawman-laden posting regarding the visit of a certain Mr. Ahmedinejad:

I was happy to hear that NYC didn't allow Iranian President Ahmadinejad to place a wreath at the WTC site. And I was happy that Columbia University is rescinding the offer to let him speak. If you let a guy like that express his views, before long the entire world will want freedom of speech.
...

If Ahmadinejad thinks he can be our friend by honoring our heroes and opening a dialog, he underestimates our ability to misinterpret him. Fucking idiot. I hate him.

Well, there's certainly some rye wit at work here. Yes, it is quite ironic that a country led by a genocidal religious dictator, which the USA most certainly is, would object to a fellow genocidal religious madman visiting its most sensitive cultural site. I mean, Mahmoud's only trying to "open a dialog" here, isn't he? Isn't that the meaning of Ahmedinejad's visit? Isn't Ahmedinejad just exercising "Free Speech", as Adams says? Aren't we wrong in denying this poor man that right?

Aside from the obvious jackassery involved in claiming that a man who directly controls his entire country's media is having trouble getting his point of view out; or that the United Nations will let him speak before the leaders of the world to the point where they forget to blink for an hour; aside from all this, this is not a question of whether or not Mahmoud is allowed to say what he wants. The question is, in accordance with the Grand Unified Theory of Rubean Mechanics, Who's going to pay for it. It's a question of whether or not Americans should be paying for his plane fare, his security, and his accommodation while he's here, pissing on Ground Zero and generating propaganda for totalitarian lobbying groups like MoveOn.org and International ANSWER.

All of Adams' ridiculous assertions never mention the one central fact here: There is no compelling reason for American taxpayers to foot the bill, so this guy, who just held one of his popular "Death to America" parades, can come over here and lecture them on anything. I personally don't much care what Ahmedinejad thinks, I can see the general thrust of his inclinations. He's spitting on the United States and Western Culture daily, and then expects to be treated with deference in return. Fuck him.

This kind of Devil's Advocacy isn't new to Adams. At least, I hope it's just that. He's apparently one of those celebrities that have forgotten the hard work involved in their ascendency, and assume that they're rich because of some accident of nature, akin to divine providence. Humans, himself included, are all just a bunch of "moist robots" with no capacity for thought, no free will; we've apparently just been programmed by Mother Nature to do the things we've done or will do. There is no mind, there is no choice, there is only the stimuli in our environments, and the response that was determined by a chance arrangement of atoms into chemicals during the Big Bang. Or something.

It's an obscene display of thoughtlessness, a conceit of someone trying so hard to seem above all this. Adams' Dilbert is amusing, and his blog is a bit of junk food for the brain at times. But he's got the morals of a two-dollar whore.

Erm...no thanks, I just lost my appetite.

Last night we didn't make it. The two Frenchmen surrendered the evening, seeing as it was Trotzky's birthday, and therefore a time for somber reflection or something. So, we rode around big town Farnborough for a couple of hours, grabbed some grub, and then headed back to the apartment to watch a movie.

We watched Fur, which cemented my belief that Nicole Kidman is the perfect woman. Not only does she look good in her own slutty little librarian sort of way, she gives a guy a handjob in this movie while shaving his hairy back. That's my kind of girl, a real little trooper.

Anyhoo, it's back off to London now, for a second try at getting sloppy somewhere besides sitting at home in front of the boob tube. Wish us luck.

Vacation week is winding down, and I'm getting ready to leave the driving to Southwest Trains and go drinking in London. I'll try to keep it under two weeks this time, but no promises. We'll tramp it a bit through Soho, I guess, just me, the girls, and a couple of frog-eaters from the office.

I wonder why I never get to go drinking with Englishmen? It's probably for the best. There's a quote that gets bandied about, especially in the local newspapers, about England being a nation of drunks and scalawags. I can't say much about that, but it does seem that the pubs all close at 11:00 PM for a reason. At 5 o'clock, they pour out of their offices and into the public houses, seemingly on a race against the clock to get themselves 'faced before the early last call.

When they were finally permitted to stay open past 11, in the hope that the binge-drinking would abate in light of longer opening hours, they found themselves doubly-cursed in that the Englishmen were every bit as drunk at 11, but didn't have to go home. All pubs here are set up so that you have to go to the counter to get your drinks, instead of having them brought to your table. There's a built-in handbrake there: a system where you can't get any more drink once you lose the ability to walk is founded upon sound principle and good advices.

Hugs,
Rube

I've done nothing today; nothing but clean out the cluttered closets of my preferred newsfeed reader. There were some connections in there that were sorely neglected. I could use a bit more time to wade through the degenerate filth that is my blogroll, but sadly, I work. The Company is tolerant in their control over my time, fair since they do not pay hourly; but tolerance has its limits, and I doubt they would look kindly upon my spending the business day in a fugue state, reading entry after entry of dialectics about Jessica Simpson's tits, or Brittney Spears' overplayed poonanny.

Nevertheless, it saddens me that my everyday is not blessed with the nuggets of wisdom from skippystalin:

Being the only person with an out-of-control substance abuse problem in a relationship is tough. Most romantic couplings are based on common interests and most of my interests culminate in my waking up in a pool of what I think is my own urine and not being quite sure what time zone I'm in. I'm much like a cat in that I have a tendancy of marking my territory with my vomit, blood and gallons of my semen...My ability to smoke, drink and masturbate furiously at the same time might not be much, it's all that I have.

Ahh, skippystalin, how I've missed you, and your nuggets.

This is how I spend my vacation: visiting Stonehenge on one day; reading the melancholy musings of skippystalin the next, picturing him composing scholarly tracts through bitter tears, a crushed Viagra dissolving in a highball of Jack Daniels next to the keyboard, as another long evening fades into a blur of poetry, madness, and vigorous bouts of hate-filled masturbation. And wondering, of the two, which is the more meaningful and fitting monument to humanity?

They should've just burned enjoyeverysandwich to CD, stuck it to the side of Voyager along with its author, and shot the whole lot into space back when they had government funding to do so, all in the name of making a good first impression for whatever aliens were out cruising for an easy meal.

skippystalin's output is prodigious, to be sure, but there was an entire blogroll to consider:

• The lunatics are running the asylum over at Straight White Guy's place. Eric's testicles are mentioned, indirectly. Remind me to change my passwords regularly and start using strong encryption.

• At WWTDD, the masturbation theme continues, this time involving Jessica Alba:

How stoned do you have to be to cheat on Jessica Alba? I could jack off to Jessica Alba while a big mean dog was chasing me and this idiot is cheating on her. I decided to confront him about this and I screamed at him, hey, what is your problem. And he said I should get off his lawn. And I said, no, no you get off the lawn. You get off. Then he went inside, probably because deep down, he knew I had made some pretty good points.

Remarkably, if you do a google image search of Jessica Alba, you see her ass more than her face.

• JimGoad.com is no more, but if you're a Goad fan (ladies!), you can find find him here. Discussion of Brittany's latest, erm, candid photos is also to be found, but be aware that the following picture is used as a visual aid: