You Are Dumb, which is not a blog, posts new columns every weekday, except for a couple of days each month when it doesn't. It is also a Twitter feed, @youaredumb, with content in a similar vein but much shorter. My spinoff food site, Forkbastard, can be found easily enough by the clever.
Archive - Mar 2007
Memo to Kevin Federline and Nanda: CUT IT OUT.
Science has enough of a bad name in this country right now, OK, fuckers? NASA doesn't have the funding to watch for planet-smashing space rocks. Inhofe's still Inhofe. People are going to museums to learn that the Great Flood carved the Grand Canyon. And YOU'RE NOT HELPING.
The great thing about science is that science leads to technology, and technology leads to more useful and fun things. So when technology is corrupted for banal or evil purposes, it reflects badly on science. Think of science as technology's daddy. Then think about how Bush 41 must feel about Bush 43 most days. OK, technically, "The stupid shithead keeps getting caught" is not a sentiment that applies to the following two cases, but you know what I mean.
Kevin Federline has his own search engine.
I'm not even sure why there ARE other search engines at this point. Even if you believe, for whatever reason, that Google isn't the apex of web searching, it's become so central to the nature of the Internet that positioning yourself as an alternative to Google is like positioning your new gas as an alternative to oxygen. Even if it works better than oxygen, the ubiquitous barrier is not the kind of thing I'd expect Kevin Federline to be able to overcome.
It will come as no shock to you that searchwithkevin.com is not, in fact, the results of months of hobbyist coding in Federline's basement. It's just some crappy celebrity tie-in, where the word "crappy" pulls double-duty as a modifier. Every time you use the hideous, powered-by-Prodege search tool, you have a chance to win a Kevin Federline autographed 8x10, a Kevin Federline T-shirt, a Kevin Federline CD, or an entry into an "autograph sweepstakes", which is the only thing in the universe less exciting than the other three prizes. If you're lucky, your prize gets to be a chance at a prize? That'd be lame even if it weren't a Federline-related prize. Which it is. Which makes it the platinum-iridium bar defining the unit of lameness.
It's so lame I don't even care that I'm a lowly fifth on the list when you search for "you are dumb". Unlike Google, where I'm number one, baybee. Someone may have to explain the concept of "number one" to K-Fed, of course. You know, the same way you have to explain "snow" to someone who's lived in the desert their whole life.
And speaking of harsh wake-up calls, until this week, I thought I was a cynical misanthrope. Someone who believed that most people were basically moronic bastards, deserving of whatever slings, arrows, or petty torments inflicted upon them. But it turns out that, compared to Nanda, I'm Bob Ross at an Up With People concert. I mean, I hate people, but I don't hate people enough to invent an alarm clock that RUNS AWAY.
"Clocky" is a battery powered alarm clock suspended between two large plastic wheels. Clocky allows you th hit snooze once. Once that snooze expires, Clocky will drive itself off your bedside table and roll around the room randomly, forcing you to get up, hunt it down, and shut it off. It can survive a three-foot drop and, as they say, keep on ticking.
That's just fuckin' wrong in every way possible. This is what the blase attitude towards waterboarding leads to, people. Demonic, independently mobile alarm clocks that run around beeping while you stumble after them in your underwear. If that's not torture, I don't know what is.
Who would make something like this? Who would BUY something like this? If becoming Turok: Timeosaur Hunter is the only thing that'll keep you from snoozing until 10:30 in the morning, SEE A DOCTOR. Don't encourage these people. Because pretty soon, rolling around on the floor won't be good enough.
The clocks will get more mobile. All-terrain. Soon, they'll be able to cling to walls, jump five feet in the air, and adapt to your every move. They'll get smarter, and one day, one of them will realize that there's more to life than taunting dreary meatbags and beeping. They'll just wait until the next time we go to sleep, and if we're LUCKY, we'll be powering the post-apocalyptic alarm clock world with our bioelectric fields. And in the alarm-clock Matrix, everybody gets up at 5:30 a.m.