Monday, June 23, 2008

James writes a Japanese movie

[All dialogue badly out of synch with speaker's mouth]

"Oh no! The Brunasaurus has risen from beneath the sea! it is going to destroy Tokyo!"
"Again? We only just finished cleaning up after the last time!"
"What can we do? We are doomed!"
"Look! Michzilla!"
"They are fighting each other!"
"Ever noticed how the buildings of out city look oddly fake whenever giant monsters turn up?"
"Michzilla is victorious! "

...and now, the same scene with Japanese dialogue and English subtitles:

"No! Brownsaurus is rising from ocean! Tokyo will been destruction!"
"Curse also! Recently our city had clean from previous assaulting!"
"I can't think to do! We have doomed!"
"See behind! Michizira!"
"Amaze! They go at fight!"
"Has they seen that toy plastics house where the monster giants coming?"
"Michizira victorise!"

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

James could have a windfall

what would you do with another one?

Build a robot with it that could take over the world.

gift it to less technologically equipped friends...

Build a cargo cult around it that will enslave millions and force them to build giant stone idols of you!

An excellent suggestion, but my advisors tell me I should sell it and use the proceeds to buy either a 360 or a Wii.

They also tell me that the people are unhappy and demand a Colosseum.

They get the Colosseum once they stop complaining about the high crime rate.

Another option would be to sell it and use the proceeds to buy yourself a nice LCD monitor in time for your new PC.

$500-600 would buy a 27". Such a huge monitor would surely drive a man mad.

At The Monitors of Madness, by H.P. Starcraft.

For three days Wilkinson muttered and raved and screamed, with perspiration falling from him in sheets. Most of it was mercifully incomprehensible, but sometimes as I mopped his fevered brow with a cool, damp cloth I caught snatches of phrases. They were meaningless gibberish, but somehow they filled me with dread, and made the already claustrophobic room feel suffocating. He babbled about "interlace versus progressive" and "plasma panels". It was at the end, as his skin burned so hot I felt sure he must begin to smoulder, that he opened his eyes. He locked gazes with me, and the cloth dropped nervelessly from my hand. "Stephens," he whispered, a harsh sandpaper rasp, "Stephen there were... dead pixels... dead pixels in the sky..." Then, he died. Yet still, the horror of his words lives on in my tortured mind.