Logic And Life, Life and Logic

Paradise

logician — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 14:16:01 +0000

Paradise is a state of bliss. A state of temporary focussed unawareness. It is the precipice of conventional reality. So why is it that after death we are sold the idea of eternal paradise? It is clear that if we maintain paradise in its extremes that we are ostracised or ruined physically through an overuse of sex or a drug or religious extremism. The true moments of paradise seem only attainable via these means.

Additionally it seems apparent that the most frustrating moments in life are also closely linked to what we determine paradise to be. They are wrought with ignorance but instead of triggering pleasure they cause failure, sadness and regret. We might also refer to these particular moments as ‘hell’. More interestingly in most cases extreme irrational frustration ends with a moment of paradise, in the case quite literally of sexual frustration and the requisite end of it.

If anyone really sat down and considered it, heaven would be hell and hell could be heaven. “You are always happy in heaven”. You are high. You are not yourself or any serious representation of the soul you inhabited on the earth. Why would that be something that even a Christian could really truly want? I think heaven is where you have all basic needs and you have the ability to exert your own decisions based on whatever bullshit you’ve been through growing up. Purgatory is sleep.

Life is heaven and hell and nothing exists beyond it. Negate paradise and you’ll pretty soon start seeing that there is no time that exists where absolutely everything is either good or bad. Then you’ll probably want a nap. Ok!

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Mascara

logician — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 04:27:58 +0000

The fashion world is utterly confused. At least if you’re a geologist you can probably learn enough to tell the difference between tiny rocks (sand) and larger rocks (buildings). There are no constants in fashion except the constant that there are none. The average amount of time spent on drawing, cutting up, hand sewing and distributing fashionable headdresses to the poor could be much better spent creating real rations and support for these communities.

The runway is a long elevated platform that no one runs down. Its other name is a ‘catwalk’ and one can be sure that if a cat went anywhere near it it’d run away. Some of the highest fashion is completely impractical. Nevertheless it is a great place for artists to publicly express any emotion through their models’ faeces. Models are on average covered in make up. A lot of the time fashion models model masks made modally in a modelling workshop. These masks cover their faces completely and often the only thing that can be seen through is the eyes.

The question still remains though; how is it that there are mask holes where the eyes are? What possible reason could there be for these vision gaps? It’s not like these are being cut there by mask makers, they must have been bored through by someone or something else! This is where the potent mascara comes in. Ever been kissing someone with mascara on and felt like your face was on fire? This is because the lashes of your beau have been enhanced to razor sharp, extended length blades that have the power to scrape eye holes in things. Like your face.

What’s the solution? Is it gaffa taping your face? Is it to apply mascara to your own eyes and then while making out your eyelashes can have sword fights with your love’s? No! You just both need to be wearing masks with no eye holes when you start. Then your love’s maskillra laden lashes can bore through their mask and yours, finally culminating in what a good relationship should be; everything except the eyes hiding behind a mask.

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Stress

logician — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 03:18:10 +0000

If something is put under stress then it snaps or breaks. It’s the number one rule of nature. Isaac Newton, inventor of the apple had his skull smashed in while testing his “fall on my head” theory of gravity.

So stress also requires sacrifice. In order to feel normal we have to eat meat which is sacrificed efficiently via a instant stress machine or in other words, a hanging noose. Cows, sheep and pigs are all hung by their necks until their neck or spine snaps and breaks. Then we just twist off the carcass and eat it, similarly to how one eats a cheese pull-apart from a chain bakery. This is why dried meat is called jerky because you really have to pull at the torso of the cow to disconnect it from its head when the meat is left to dry for too long.

So stress on a deeper level also involves jerks and jerking off. While they might seem to be very different things in real life they often mirror their phonetic similarity. Jerks are mean people who make your life harder. When a person becomes aroused some part of their body gets harder. Relieving stress via jerking off is therefore the easiest when the stress is the hardest. While cleaning up sexual mess one might feel unclean and stress may rise again either in the form of more sexual activity or a sore back from bending over and mopping it all up.

A mop’s existence is purely devoted to the holding of dirt. The unrelenting scourge of the mop is both an existential problem and a constant reminder that the floor is just never, ever clean. The removal of dirt is stress relieving so the dirtiest place in the house (the used mop head) is the most stress free.

There is lots of dirt outside in the form of pure soil. Eating things that grow in the dirt make us more content, relieving stress. Just be sure that the apples that grow and fall with you watching from afar. Isaac newton knew it best; the real lesson is that gravity is an emotion, not a force.

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Booby Traps

logician — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 06:19:22 +0000

A dark wave was pushing one of the only unmanned vessels across the largest ocean in the world, the east pacific ocean. The captain; who was a satin bower bird of noble upbringing and almost negligible post traumatic disorder, was standing at the stern of the boat passing down orders to the shipmates which were a rag tag crew of younger bower birds, all having eaten each others wings in a late night bush brawl.

It was the only way of travel for these birds. Straight across the sea in search of the crack-heroin of their world; blue objects. For some reason the irony of searching the vast blue ocean for blue things was completely lost. Convenient segue; they were completely lost.

Eventually the captain waved his stumpy arm at the coast of the galapagos island that they were almost passing by. One of the many problems with captaining a vessel designed by birds is that they haven’t invented anything beyond piles of faecal matter and leaves. These smart bowerbirds had invented a cavity made of these two substances and then jumped in it. Unable to get out the captain had birdnapped them and pushed the vessel into the ocean. Following this they had been accidentally propelled by the physical result of the in-fighting and sexual deviancy inherent in a bunch of trapped birds.

The beach they fought onto was a long stretch of white sand. The birds tweeted at each other but the louder ones ran out of characters and died.

Sure there were blue things to be found. There were finches lurking in the upper tree trunks. Some of the larger turtles had blue tongues because the sky burnt them that way; it’s a common misconception that sunburn makes your skin red. The sky is blue and burns as such. Herpes is red. Get it checked.

All of a sodden it rained solidly for over 4 days. The birds were cold and shivering, the withdrawal from their last sight of an obtainable blue thing having been weeks ago when Mildred the whale ate half the boat. The moralbatross was at an all time low when around the corner of the galapacave came some blue feet. Shining bright in the overcast light the feet were mezmerising for the crew.

Then, the blue foot exploded and then all the birds were dead. A passing blue footed booby sighed deeply and exclaimed “I told him not to realise he had feet! We’re the only ones with feet that are so idiotic. If we realise we have feet then…”

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Paper Plantation

logician — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 04:03:07 +0000

The environmental degradation of the planet is seemingly never ending. The newspaper is constantly going on about how every action has a negative consequence on everything green. Never mind that green is the universally accepted colour of “bile” or “illness”, we can’t seem to stop trying to make as many green things exist or continue to exist. Recycling is seen as a way to curb our never-ending destructive ways yet for most the irony is lost.

Paper is collected in green bins made of negative environmental atoms and this paper is planted in the ground for trees to come and eat it. Recycled paper is actually awful and brown so how do they get it as white as normally harvested fresh paper? The underside of killer whales is grated off (using the zest side of your average kitchen grater) for the purest white to colour the best office reams. Is that good for the environment?

In Tasmania the trees aren’t getting the food they need. Instead due to little sun or any form of stimulating activity or culture they’re all sleeping on the ground as they haven’t the energy to forage for paper to eat. Trucks pick them up, mistaking them for dead trees which can obviously be turned into fodder for living trees. This cyclical destruction of the wilderness isn’t helped by Tasmanian literacy levels which are at an all time low this year. If the trees news that newspaper was paper then they could eat that! Unfortunately by the time a tree has enough branches for the alphabet they’re mistaken for asleep and ground into a fine paper paste.

Government regulation isn’t helping the trees either. We aren’t allowed to throw paper all over the street. That’s called “littering” yet this goes against exactly what trees require so they die. A tree that’s left for too long ends up dissolving into concrete or asphalt and that’s how we come to the concrete jungle everyone has to live through today.

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Sour Grapes

logician — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 22:09:29 +0000

Your average $10 bottle of wine is distilled from alcohol and tanning residue. It’s bottled cheaply, coloured and then labelled as something it’s not. The whole practice takes place in silence because for some reason it’s a social faux pas to disturb it. The more expensive wine is mixed with some kind of secret dirt so when it’s ‘decunted’ everyone is impressed at just how clean it comes out of the bottle despite the layer of crud seemingly mixed in with it all.

The sourest, most unripe grapes at a vineyard are always devoured by the local birds. Birds always eat them far before humans can stomach them. The grapes that are left are used unceremoniously to construct ye olde cask wine. The cask is inhaled ceremoniously at the passing of the day and is often following by the passing of the out.

Grapes left over from making the prestigious cask wine are given to supermarkets. These are the useless green seedless variety common in supermarkets. This ill, impotent grape is what you feed your children. So the hole in this scenario is a singularity. Normal wine, as I previously mentioned, is created without grapes. So how is the premium wine made? It’s fairly simple. Expensive wine farmers often wear suits when they exist. They’ve got a lot of money so you’d think it makes sense. In actual fact it comes down to the suits being used as a critical bait. They farm in suits too! Did the Overnment ever tell you that?

The birds that eat the sour grapes still piss and shit just as much as the next man. It’s just that a sour bird is one who is looking to score. They’ve ingested the disgusting fruit and need the financial support to live with their digestive issues. So they fly about looking for a suitor. It is in this scenario that our rich farmers succeed. They get the birds with their well groomed appearance and then keep them locked in a “Wine extraction cage” where gradually the fluids and shit are leaked out into fake-dusted bottles. The sediment which you love and cherish is the bird’s sour grape shit. The rest is just piss.

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Thin Ice

logician — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 10:16:54 +0000

I’ve only seen snow when it’s cold. It’s not nearly cold enough in Melbourne for it to snow sno I snhaven’t sneen seen any snow since I went overseas. Seeing as the sea doesn’t freeze it’s only on land that we see snow. Which brings me to the point about ice. If you have ice skates then it’s far beyond the time where you should have been out using them. Ice cream is great so ice skating must be even better!

People get scared of thin ice. They try and avoid skating across it due to the ‘potential’ for the ice to crack. The problem with this logic is that most don’t actually know what the cracks are, why they are caused, what the word potential means or what is underneath them. The truth of the matter lies, like most things, in fear. While you were rolling around in bed last night muttering sweet nothings to your pillow where your ex used to sleep a small bug was running away from you. You’re fucking huge and it neither wants anything to do with you nor understands what you mean by the semi-incoherent sleep talk, “Oh yeah, bring the cheese grater in. I love it when you’re naked and remind me of dairy products.”

The bug runs towards the darkest thing that it can because generally really dark objects seem to be directly related to an inability for humans to access them properly. Crevices, cracks, caves, night time… the list goes on. So the bug gets into the nearest crack and hides, saving its hide and allowing you to sleep without being covered in bugs. So ice skates work in a similar way. Ice skates are utterly terrified of humans. They create cracks in order to escape your feet! It’s not that the ice is thin. It’s not that the water beneath is cold.

So the next time you go ice skating on thin ice and cracks form do your boots the kind relieving favour of throwing them into the cracks. To do anything else is tantamount to torture.

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The Sun

logician — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 22:34:04 +0000

The clouds and the entire hypothesis of precipitation are based around the logic that the sun sends tiny Rays across space (which is a vacuum cleaner) and these ‘rays’ absorb all of the moisture in the earth’s atmosphere and hold them captive for a bit before releasing them as rain. This process can take place because the earth’s vacuum (or gravity if you like science) is equal to 9.81 m/s^2. The vacuum of space is only equal to about 2 m/s^2. This is of course only about as strong as the vacuum cleaner at your holiday house, the one that everyone complains about but never replaces. The earth’s vacuum is like a top-end dyson vacuum cleaner, able to suck in rain from even the most problematic dirt on your carpet.

So the question is.. where does the sun get all the Rays from! On earth there’s probably only about 30 million Rays. Something like that. Yet somehow the sun has bazillions of them, once for each droplet of rain. Then I got to thinking maybe I’m just spelling it wrong. The sun’s Rays are Raise. They are all a raise! If you spell it like that then the connotations completely change. Each time the sun hits your face it makes the moisture raise off your face and captures it for later rain. Makes sense to me!

Now while letting all these raise onto your face might seem okay, what about sunburn? If I go outside right now and look at the sun for 4-5 hours then not only will I get horribly burnt, I’ll forget that I have eyes (go blind). If there is no water on your skin then the raise of the sun want to burrow further looking for water. Like lettuce, humans are 99.8% water. Skin is 100% skin though! No water in there, just beneath. Think of it like drilling for oil. The land burns and fires erupt into hell when that happens. It only makes sense that the raise want to prospect, drilling past your stupid skin and into the watery depths below.

As for looking at the sun… it’s only bad because the sun is shy. Imagine if you had people erupting out of you all the time! You surely wouldn’t want a lowly water bag looking at you and laughing!

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Ovens

logician — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 11:36:56 +0000

Anything born of heat and flame has root in pure idiocy. A young smith from nowhere near where you live was sitting and knitting. The smiths were known for boring tasks that made them seem inconsequential to their surrounds. The original smith was John and he was not a warrior. Not initially. Think more arts and crafts.

Out of the hay John was knitting with a flame spontaneously combusted and blasted his facial hair to dust. Luckily he was far too inept to shave so this was not a shock. In fact, a normal day began with a visit to the town fire where he would cover his eyes with his hands and lower his chin into the coals to roast off the hair before working in the testicular hammer testing clinic. So his careful knitting wasted away. Not to waste the opportunity entirely John got his gloves and clapped them over the flame to try and quell the disaster that was this waste of time.

The gloves, like all of his possessions, were also made of hay and set alight. John set to work all over again after collecting some more hay from Dr. Horse. After repeating this exploding hay idiocy and ruining 280 degrees of gloves the pile of smouldering ashes by his feet was large enough to cover the conveniently placed sleeping poultry. Birds have no sense of heat so it slept to its death coated in the coals. The next day John tripped over himself while in the middle of trying to open his eyes wide to feel more powerful and awake. His face happened to fall into the pile of glove bird ash and when he stood up there was chicken in his mouth. And what a flavour! It was something entirely new. So the Glowing cooking bird pile pile, or “oven” for short was born. John died stupider than he was born.

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Salt

logician — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 07:05:08 +0000

About 20 four years ago the ocean used up all the towels attempting to dry itself. There were none left. Cotton no longer grew underground. Synthetic materials got so scared of being used and abused that they converted back into crude oil. The resources had, for lack of a better term, dried up. The ocean wanted to find a way to become dry without the human weaved glory that was the bath towel.

Eventually as humbling as it was the ocean decided to speak to its denizens in an attempt to sort a solution through the contribution of others. Salmon, Flake and Octupus alike were all involved in the first meet of the coralosseum. As chance would have it it was flake who spoke instantly of his species’ heaven.

“If I would have to have a choice between moisture and dryness it is the control of the white powder from above that helps us to be more delicious. Chips too.”

Octopus was silent because calamari isn’t as talkative as flake. Salmon knew nothing of this drying agent as his range was limited to the clear lake and river water that fellates into the sea. So the ocean sent all of the flake to the surface in one fell swoop of Poseidon-esque brutality.Naturally all the sailors who only eat fish and chips sprinkled salt all over the ocean at once. Saxa made millions. Salt shakers were given up in favour of large helicopter drops of tonnes of the sillysiltysalt. The sailors called their wives and sons. The wives called the potato factory who seized the opportunity and flew planes over the sea, throwing potatoes at the plane’s turbines which simultaneously cooked and chopped the chips to perfection due to the heat and the rotating turbines.

Suddenly the ultimate paradox became a reality. Water became drier than air. Salt dried the water and water wetted the salt. There was so much pleasure erupting from the salt and ocean’s love that the salt multiplied like a virile seed in a jar of female sexual organs.

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