Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

Pure Panda-monium

So, what’s up with panda bears, anyway?

(Yeah, no farting around the bush tonight — I’m cutting right to the chase.

Except… well, now I’m all distracted, thinking about what the hell ‘farting around the bush’ means. Where did that come from?)

Anyway, panda bears. Now, panda numbers are dwindling, out there in the wild, and that’s sad. Seriously, I want to go on record, right here, as being against killing pandas for their tusks. Or their blubber, or their panda-hair toupees, or whatever the hell we’re poaching them for. That’s bad. Bad, naughty poachers!

On the other hand, there are some people out there trying to help panda bears. This often seems to involve bringing the pandas into something called ‘captivity’, which might involve a zoo, or a nature preserve, or something like that. Probably not a pet store, but maybe — I’m not really clear how these things work. But somewhere without poachers — I’m pretty sure that’s the important bit.

So, these folks whisk the bears off to safety, and truck in a bunch of bamboo, or coconuts, or Frosted Mini-Wheats, or… I guess I’m not really much sure what pandas eat, either. That’s okay — it’s not really important right now. The point is, these panda bears get set up with a pretty sweet deal — three square fibery meals a day, yummy fresh water, a little space to roam around, and lots of fresh, poacherless air. Ah, but that’s not all.

You see, once we snare these bears and set them up in their little pandapartments, we give them one job. One job, dammit. Make more pandas. That’s all — just lumber in there, get biz-zay, and pop out some panda pups to keep the species going. Is that so fricking hard?

Well, apparently, it is. From what I understand, we have a hell of a time getting these pandas to get ‘friendly’ within our friendly confines. It’s not easy getting Ling Ling and Chuang Chuang to do their ‘thang-thang’, if you know what I’m saying. Seriously, what does it take to get the ugly bumpy bears to bump their bare uglies?

(Yeah, I worked hard on that last one. See how I spend my weekday nights? That’s dedi-fuckin-cation, people. You gotta represent.)

So, here’s the thing — put yourself in the bears’ place for a minute, and you’ll see how ridiculous this really is. Imagine that something similar happened to you. Let’s say you’re just walking down the street or sitting on your couch, minding your own business, and suddenly there’s a tranq dart in your ass, and you’re down.

Now, when you wake up, you’re in a new house. Nice porch, nice yard — the neighbors are a little nosy, and there are thousands of ’em, every day, but otherwise, it’s not a bad spot. And then whoever’s in charge tells you that they’re sorry to inconvenience you, but there’s a huge crisis, and there are, like, ninety people left in the world, and this is the only way to keep you safe right now. And they’ll feed you, and keep you washed up, and make sure you’re entertained and comfortable and all of that. And oh, by the way, would it be any trouble for you if we bring in a member of the opposite sex, so you can propogate the species together?

See, I’m thinking — assuming your panda schwing swings that way — that it’s a pretty damned sweet deal. Eat, drink, sleep, and get it on occasionally for the good of your people. Only they won’t. What the hell is that about? Sure, all the people and the cameras watching all the time would be a little unnerving — I understand that. Assuming you’re not the panda Peter North, I can see where you could have a bit of performance anxiety.

But come on, now — this is the only way the species is gonna make it. Seriously, how heinously hideous would your prospective partner have to be for you to say, ‘Unh-uh. Not gonna do it. Screw my kind — screw all of my kind. Except that one. Not gonna happen.‘ Really, people. We’ve all got standards and all that shit, but in that case? If it’s got something in the right neighborhood of arms and legs and noses, then I think you’ve gotta take one for the team. You don’t have to brag to the other pandas about it later — but shit, if you don’t get in there and get it on, there won’t be other pandas to tell. It’s not fricking rocket science.

I’m beginning to wonder whether we’re capturing the right pandas, frankly. Maybe all we’ve got in our zoos and shit are the unboinkable duds. The losers. The dweebs. The panda Poindexters. And somewhere out there are the panda gigolos, with their gold chains and their pimped-out panda rides, pulling all the panda wool. And those are the bitches getting poached. Dammit. Isn’t that just our luck?

Ah, well. Sucks for the pandas, but I guess there’s a bright side, at least for me. If the human race is ever put on the endangered species list, it looks like I’ll have a nice new home in the zoo. I sure hope they have dirty magazines.

This One’s Sim-ply Biblical

So, I mentioned a few days ago that my wife bought me The Sims for Christmas.

(Yeah, yeah, I know — that’s sooo 2002, right? Or 2001, even.

Look, I don’t keep up with all these crazy games. I like to play, sure, but I’m finding that I’m no entertainophile, or whatever the real latest-‘n’-greatest game nuts are called. I’m happy to grab an older game at a discount, spend a few months getting bored with it, and then moving on to the next thing that everyone else has already played. I don’t find many gaming buddies that way — who would still play the original Half Life online with me these days, eh? — but it still keeps me busy. And slightly less poor, so I’ve got that going for me.)

Anyway, The Sims. Since we’ve been back, I’ve had a chance to try it out. Where ‘a chance’ means ‘several dozen hours, mostly when I should have been sleeping’. So I’ve spent a fair amount of time the past two weeks with my little simulated minions, and I wanted to mention them here.

Of course, given that A) many of you don’t play such games, and 2) those who do have gotten your Sim freak on long ago, and have moved on to newer and flashier games — like Doom, or Myst, or Pong — I’ve decided not to bore you with a long, detailed description of the game, and my little people, and what I’ve been doing to/with/for them.

No, that wouldn’t do at all. So I’ve decided to bore you in a slightly different way, instead. Just for you, I’ve developed a ‘God complex’ — you see what I do for you people? — and I’ve written a Bible to hand down to my sims to tell them ‘the story so far’ of their virtual world.

(Which is sort of asinine, since they were actually there for ninety percent of it, I realize. And even more ridiculous, because they don’t fricking exist in the first place, sure.

But dammit, I needed something to write about on a Sunday afternoon, so this is what I’m going with. Don’t pester me with logic, fer chrissakes. I’m grabbing at straws as it is.)

So, for your reading enjoyment and spiritual edification, I give you: ‘The Sim Bible‘, also known as ‘That Happening Holy History Book‘. Bow your heads, and let’s recite from the beginning.

(No, no, not you. If you bow your head, you can’t frigging see the monitor, now, can you? Sheesh. Get with the program.)

The Book of SimGenesis:

In the beginning, there was a gift. A holy gift, wrapped in nice paper, and smelling a bit of perfume. Or frankincense, maybe — no one’s really sure.

And yea, the Lord opened the gift, and saw that the gift was good. And the gift begat a box, which further begat a CD, and the CD begat a program, from which hath sprung all the sim world around you. All hail the holy perfumy box, and all its progeny.

On the first day, the CD sat, unread. The CD also sat unread on the second day, and the third, and the fourth. The Lord is a busy man, with many responsibilities outside the world you know. Plus, the Lord was really hungover after His holy New Year’s Eve party, and would have made a really lousy deity that day. Plagues of frogs and all that shit — you wouldn’t have liked the Lord on that day.

On the fifth day, though, the Lord got His holy shit together, and turned His attention to the sacred CD. And yea verily did He transfer the software to the Lord’s computer — via immaculate installation, of course — and brought forth your world into existence. All praise the holy computer, mother to all Sims! Amen.

The Book of Simesiastes:

When the world was initialized by the Lord, several Sims were already living in it. These are the ancient heathens of your world; they are sinful, and do not worship the Lord. Unless the Lord decides to play as one of them. Which the Lord only did once, for a little while, with the two heathen chicks that live together. At which time, they were very, very sinful, indeed. And the Lord saw that it was good. And pretty hot, too. The Lord knew a bathroom with two tubs would come in handy. Yowza.

Wow, that wasn’t very damned biblical. I hope this shit ends up in the Simpocrypha. Next book, then.

The Book of Simiticus:

After the Lord determined — using His holy, omniscient magicaly powers — that the roommate girls weren’t going to have lesbian sex any time soon, the Lord became weary and bored and slightly less horny. And so, the Lord created the first of His chosen people — His Adam.

Only his name wasn’t Adam. That’s too obvious. Your Lord is kind of a cheeseball, but some things are too easy, even for Him.

No, the first chosen Sim’s name was Harry. Harry Simson. The Lord chose ‘Simson’ as a surname, because He thought it was clever and witty. Upon further reflection — later, as the Lord was using the Holy john — the Lord realized that the vast majority of Lords who create chosen people very probably do the exact same thing. The Lord really is kind of a cheeseball.

Nevertheless, you have to worship Him. Cheeseball or not, He brought your asses into this world, and He’ll take you out if you cross Him. Keep that in mind.

Now, back to Harry, the chosen one. The Lord created Harry in his image, more or less. The Lord suspects that Harry was a little shorter than the Lord, and probably in better shape… and Harry had a nicer wardrobe than the Lord has, but all things considered, Harry was quite a reasonable Chosen One.

For three of your days, the Lord watched Harry, and spake to Harry, and bade Harry to do the Lord’s work. Which mostly involved eating, taking out the trash, and flushing the toilet so the flies would stay out of the bathroom. Which is much like the work that the Lord’s wife asks the Lord to do, coincidentally. Perhaps Harry really was created in the mold of the Lord. Verily.

On the third of Harry’s days, the Chosen One made dinner for himself. The Chosen One had to, because the Lord set him up in a bachelor pad for starters. The Lord wasn’t interested in caring for an entire freaking family of chosen people — the Lord is busy and important, and was still a bit hung over, remember. So the Lord sayeth to Himself that Harry would make a nice start, and He took care to see that his Chosen One would flourish.

Of course, the Lord also sayeth to Himself that He needeth not read the manual that cometh with the sacred CD. And so, when Harry made dinner for himself on the third of Harry’s days, and Harry’s stove bursteth into flames, the Lord could not intervene. Had the Lord read the holy manual, the Lord would have known about the sacred smoke detector that He could have installed into the Chosen One’s kitchen. But the Lord didn’t read the holy manual, and yea, Harry burnethed into a pile of ashes on his kitchen floor.

(Oh, give it up. He was probably a sinner, anyway. The Lord knows for a fact that he didn’t always wash his hands after using the bathroom. That’s bad karma. Harry brought it on himself, really.

Ooh, and hey, look — biblical parentheses. Now wouldn’t these come in handy?)

As the body of Harry burned, the Angel of Death arrived to collect Harry’s soul. And Harry must have sinned, because the Lord hasn’t seen Harry’s soul since. Harry’s not with the Lord, so Lord only knows where Harry went. The Lord’s omniscience only goes so far, you know.

Meanwhile, the Lord read the holy manual, and saw the holy smoke alarm section. The Lord then bulldozed Harry’s house, to destroy the evidence of the Lord’s ignorance. In addition to a cheeseball, the Lord is occasionally also a royal douchebag. The Lord doesn’t want to talk about this any more. Amen, and all that shit.

The Book of Simeniah:

Yea, the Lord was not daunted by the works of Satan that claimed his Chosen Harry. (The Lord is a big fan of revisionist history, by the way.)

The Lord immediately set about populating the land with another of His chosen people, and created Timmy. Timmy Rosenrosen. And the Lord created Timmy in His own image, and even gave Timmy a cool striped shirt. And a new home. And a smoke detector. And the Lord saw that the smoke detector was good.

The Lord watched and instructed Timmy, the new Chosen One, for many of Timmy’s days. The Lord spake to Timmy, and saw that Timmy ate, slept, and occasionally went to work. The Lord found that Timmy could keep his job by going to the office every other day. The Lord developed Chosen One envy, until the Lord noted that the Chosen One is not anatomically correct. And yea, the Lord felt better about Himself.

After several of Timmy’s days, the Lord bade Timmy to call the apparently non-lesbian roommate chicks for a holy party. The Chosen One called, as instructed, and the two heathen ladies soon arrivedeth at Timmy’s door. The ladies entereth the house of the Lord’s Timmy, and the Lord saw that it was good. And sort of hot again, too. The Lord was having a slow weekend, all right?

So yea, the Lord bade Timmy to chat up the brunette roommate chick. And Timmy chattedeth, and the Lord saw that the chatting was good. Then, verily, the Lord bade Timmy to joke with the brunette roommate chick. And Timmy jokedeth, and the Lord saw that the joking was good. And then the Lord bade Timmy to hug the brunette roommate chick. And Timmy huggedeth, and the brunette roommate chick wasn’t having any of that, and the Lord saw that the brunette roommate chick was a stuck-up heathen bitch. The Lord considered talking to her directly using His burning stove, but none was available at the time. And the Lord cursed the smoke detector He’d bought, and bade Timmy to banish the brunette roommate chick from the house.

The Lord then bade Timmy to put the moves on the blonde roommate chick. And Timmy putteth on the moves, and the Lord saw that the moves were good. The Lord should have moves that good. The Lord would have so gotten Himself laid in high school with those moves. The Lord again developed a touch of Chosen One envy, until He remembered the ‘anatomically correct’ thing again. The Lord got over it.

When the Lord got around to bossing Timmy around again, the Chosen One was getting along swimmingethly with the blonde non-lesbian roommate chick, whose name turned out to be Chris. The Lord bade Timmy to invite Chris back several times during Timmy’s next week, and eventually the Lord bade Timmy propose to Chris. Chris, who turns out to be a good and faithful sim, accepted, and Timmy and Chris were wed in holy matrimony.

Which cost the Lord two hundred of Timmy’s bucks. Crap. Nobody told the Lord that. The Lord really has to start reading the whole manual, for chrissakes.

That’s it for the Sim Bible so far, but I’m still working on it. I’ve played a couple of days now with the woman in the house, too, and it’s a little more complicated. Lord knows what would happen if they have a kid or something.

Actually, come to think of it, Lord doesn’t. The Lord’s kind of a cheeseball, remember? Meh.