Subliminal Monkey Balls

“GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!”

The above caustic incantation is how I perceive most advertising. Whether it’s an infectious baby on a web cam or a bearded fool clamoring bloated portrayals of junk or a magazine ad formatted to look like an article or a magazine article written in a covertly advertising manner or a pop-up ad, which I don’t even look at, but if I did I would make a note never to patronize that company for interrupting my on-line Old Maid tournament, or a television crawl about a doorknob millionaire matchmaker show featuring a dopey looking Cher-oid beast making faces at me and ruining the moment when I was about to weep because Will Hunting had just reached an epiphany as he hugged his therapist, Mork from Ork, or a guilt-trip, zippy radio bit about donating my car to help kids I don’t even know (how the hell am I supposed to get to the bar?) or the deluge of other dickering disruptions that are hurled at me each day, “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” is all I hear. It makes me want to dip my head into a boiling pot of goulash and keep it there for like an hour, but then the goulash will become over-reduced, so I don’t. You shouldn’t boil goulash. I do like that one dude on those Miller High Life commercials. “Y’all must be crazy!” Ahhhh, it never gets old. It doesn’t mean I’ll drink the product. It doesn’t mean I won’t, either. Advertising, although seemingly a necessary festering abscess in our beloved capitalistic economy, is the festering abscess of society, and I loathe anybody associated with it, especially those who sell out to it – no matter how fetching the term “Frosty Favorites” is.

So why the hell are there Google Ads on this page? That is a fair question. The easy answer would be that it is Sid’s fault because he has no scruples. Or manners, for that matter. But, that is not the correct answer. We here at Google Pop have taken a lot of good natured ribbing over the years for having sold out by placing Google Ads on our quaint little blog. And rightly so, although the sticky bombs tossed at my station wagon were a little excessive – they destroyed my custom Never Ending Story paint job. We only did it to become Internet millionaires, and why wouldn’t we? It is a noble cause. And we are well on our way. So far, we’ve amassed a prodigious $5.45 (and that’s after only 16 months). On cyberpaper, that is. We have yet to be paid, and we won’t be paid for quite some time.

The Google pimp does not fork over the dough to its bitches until the dirty whore of a web site has generated at least $4,938,338.82 worth of user clicks. The good news is that when we finally get the check, we’ll be a millionaire. The bad news is, by that time, we will be dead. A dead millionaire, but dead nonetheless. But a millionaire, nonetheless, too. It’s a yin yang kind of thing. Unless you like being dead, then it’s a yin yin thing. Or a yang yang. I can never remember which is the good one. Personally, I like yang. I’m a yang guy from way back. I am so imbued with yang, people think I won the Nobel Prize for physics in 1957 (I actually won it in 1983 for discovering the tri-sexual duality of tau neutrinos). I also walk funny.

Part of the soul selling deal with the Google is that we are not allowed to coerce our visitors into clicking the ads, which makes sense since their flashy designs should be enough to attract ravenous online shoppers. Or at least dumb people with some cash to throw away. Nor are we allowed to click the ads ourselves. Why would we? We don’t need any of that crap. Nobody does. So, don’t click on the ads. We don’t need the Google police sending us on the lam again, and you don’t need the crap they promote, either. Take your money, and do something useful with it, like buy a monster truck from GM.

So, if it’s going to take forever to get paid by Google, and the ads suck, why do we display them on our site? Another fair question. One might think it’s because of Sid’s lack of scruples. Good guess, once again. But, wrong, once again. The truth is they can be entertaining and a source of inspiration.

Google has some kind of outlandish database sorcery that sifts through the words in our blog and tries to match them to key words in their table of skulking vendors and then serve up their ad in the designated areas on our site. The assumption is what we’re writing about is of interest to whomever is reading it, and the readers also may be interested in purchasing something related to that topic. We all know that nobody who happens to be reading this blog is even remotely interested in what we are saying. Thus, Google’s underhanded, know-it-all scheme is foiled, which is just plain funny. We sure fooled them. The lack of clicks generated so far is proof of that (it certainly has nothing to do with the amount of traffic to this place).

These ads also help us guide the content of the blog, as we attempt to generate silly and useless ads by writing about silly and useless subjects. Do you think Sid WANTED to write about cow pissing? Do you think I WANTED to write about scratching my crotch? No. What kind of dunderheads would write about that? He was trying to elicit a bovine diaper ad, and I was going for a Sarah Palin ad – both of which we feel are hilarious. Let’s face it, it’s not easy for either one of us to come up with ideas to write about, and we’ll take all the help we can get.

Have you ever wondered why you feel like monkey balls after reading one of our posts? It’s because we’ve subliminally infused the idea of monkey balls throughout most of the writings using fiendishly placed letters and special polyfollic fonts. Unfortunately, our tactics may be beyond the intuition of the Google sorcery, and we have yet to have realized an ad for simian testicular enhancement surgery. But, we have not given up hope and will forge ahead with our quest. We hope you have as much fun with the Google Ads as we do.

Advertising is not informative nor is it there with your best interests in mind. Don’t believe anything it tells you. Its only purpose is to nab our cash. It is a pest. It is a violation of our right to be left alone and make asinine purchases of our own volition. It is also unavoidable. So, we might as well have some fun with it. And, monkey balls.

Scientific Dreams Collide

The construction and testing of the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is just about complete and is expected to be cranked up in May. Once in operation, this machine may unlock secrets of the universe scientists have dreamed of understanding ever since their mathematics told them to go to sleep and dream about them. “No more dreaming about Doctor Who,” the Math said, “you must dream about hypothetical particles suggested by me.” Lucky for us, the scientists took Math’s advice. They dreamed about particles so much, they created the Large Hadron Collider so they could actually meet these particles of obsession. It’s similar to what Anthony Michael Hall and that other guy, who we never heard of again, did in the movie Weird Science. Now it looks like those scientists’ dreams will soon come true.

The Large Hadron Collider is a seventeen mile long metal and concrete tube formed in giant circle. It is located underground spanning the border of France and Switzerland. The bond this device creates surgically connects France and Switzerland. With this collider, I thee wed. This is bad news for the people of Switzerland. The next time France gets their ass kicked in a war, the Swiss are going down with them. There is no waving the flag of neutrality when you are connected at the hip by a super collider. Just ask Paul McCartney.

Basically, what the LHC does is smash things. We haven’t come a very long way from the cave man days. Smashing things then, as it is now, was the primary method for discovery. “Groc wonder what in walnut shell.” SMASH! “A walnut.” “Groc wonder what inside egg.” SMASH! “Goo taste good.” “Groc wonder why Drok is such jerk.” SMASH! “Him dead now, him not jerk no more.” The only difference is that now we are smashing considerably smaller things.

Here is how it works. They take Hadron, who is the Half-Giant character from the Harry Potter stories, and launch him around the seventeen mile tube. (Hey, JK Rowling can’t write for ever. The guy needs some other source of income). With each pass he picks up more speed. Once he gets close to the speed of light (don’t worry, his mass won’t convert into energy at that speed because he wears safety goggles), they shoot a beam of sub-atomic particles, some of which are bread crumbs collected from the CERN (Council European for Research Nuclear where the LHC lives) cafeteria, in the opposite direction around the tube. Theoretically, Hadron will collide, eventually, with a bread crumb or maybe a proton. This collision will produce other sub-atomic particles that will be detected by a giant refrigerator magnet. The magnet is wired to computers on which the scientists will be playing Pac Man. They will be able to tell what kinds of particles were emitted by the color of the ghosts that emerge from the middle of the Pac Man playing screen.

The LHC’s primary objective is to find the Higgs Boson. The Higgs Boson is a hypothetical particle scientists believe explains why matter has mass. This is a key element in determining why the W and Z bosons are lard asses, while photons remain is such good shape. It ties all of their loose ended theories together, including the conspiracy theories of JFK, the holy grail and why Jim Belushi got his own show . If you want to learn more about this, I suggest you watch PBS until Nova comes on. And then tell me. The point is, scientists cannot actually prove their theory about mass until they can capture the elusive Higgs Boson and interrogate it under a hot lamp. And maybe poke it with a stick.

As it turns out, they built the LHC for nothing. I happen to have gazillions of Higgs Bosons living in my house. In fact, they’ve overrun the place.

Years ago, I was at a garage sale at the home of Nobel prize winning physicist Richard Feynman. I was a wide-eyed college lad. He was trying to clear out some of his old stuff so he could fit a bubble hockey game in his basement. I thought I’d buy some of his drawings, if he had any for sale. We struck up a conversation that led to him telling me about his travels to Brazil. Before I knew it, we were jamming together, he on the frigideira and me on the pandeiro. We were laughing and hugging and giving each other noogies. Before I left he told me he wanted to give me something. He ran inside the house. I grabbed a few of his drawings and shoved them down my pants. He came back with a cardboard box with a big red question mark painted on it. He gave it to me and told me not to open in it until I got home. We played one more song (Electric Avenue by Eddie Grant), and I was on my way. I never opened the box when I got home. Charles in Charge was on TV, so I threw the box in the garage and forgot about it.

As I’ve moved to different places throughout my life, I brought the box with me, never thinking to open it. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago, while I was looking through the back of my closet for yarn, when I came across the box and decided to open it. When I lifted the lid, a single Higgs Boson peaked over the rim and looked around. It ignored me and yelled back inside the box, “All clear!” All of a sudden immeasurable amounts of other Higgs Bosons poured out of the box and scattered all over the house – and they kept coming. As you may know, Higgs Bosons decay into other particles pretty quickly, but that hasn’t stopped them from commandeering my house. As soon as one decays, there is another one to take its place and continue doing what the other one was doing. It’s like they’ve been trained by army ants. For example, one of them started to make a liver sausage and honey omelet. That one never lived long enough to eat it. Fifty million other bosons teamed up to finish cooking it and twenty million others ate it. And none of them cleaned up. They’ve ripped off the lid of the box and bolted it to the floor. I can’t get rid of them. And they keep coming.

I’ve learned to live with their disregard for me and their maniacal living style. To tell you the truth, it’s not much different than my normal swinging bachelor lifestyle, if you don’t count the wild parties, naked women, drugs and Mah Jongg tournaments they have.

In the interest of science I stopped one of them the other day and asked it, “Why does matter have mass and what role in it do you play?” It replied, “If it was up your ass, you’d know.” And then it decayed, leaving its cigarette burning on my couch.

If it was up my ass, I'd know. Very profound. I can see why the scientists are looking for such a remarkable particle. So I decided to call the smart people at CERN and tell them to look in their asses for the answer to their dreams. But the Higgs Bosons destroyed my phone, and part of my ear, when I tried to make the call. I think the people who created the LHC are better off not knowing for now. They’ll find out soon enough.

Stupid Question

SQ: Would one piss "on" the sun or "in" the sun?

SA: This is not a question of grammar as it seems to be. This is a question of physics. I believe the piss would be vaporized before it had a chance to get "on" or "in" the sun. So whether it is "on" or "in" is immaterial. For the sake of argument, let's say you have magical piss, the non-vaporizing sort. Since the Sun is gaseous the piss would be engulfed into it, like liquid to a sponge. But we do not piss "in" sponges, unless we cut a hole in it and stick the source of micturition into it (I'm sure we are all familiar with this practice) (Forgive me, ladies, I have no idea how women do it. I guess they just sit on it and go? Please enlighten me.) Rather, we piss "on" sponges, even though the piss ends up "in" the sponge. So, if we look at it that way, I would say that "on" would be the correct preposition when the object of pissing is the sun. Then again, sponges are not gaseous, like the sun, so this analogy may have some holes in it.

However, since the sun is so gravitationally endowed, we would neither have to piss "in" nor "on" the sun to achieve the desired result. All we would have to do is piss "in the vicinity" of the sun, and its gravity would pull the piss into it, assuming we are not closer to another source of gravity that is stronger, whether it be by proximity or by mass or some combination of both [see Newton: Fg=G*m1m2/r2]. For example, you can't do it standing on the Earth, unless your piss velocity was greater than the escape velocity demanded by Earth's gravity, which is approximately 25,000 miles per hour (ignoring air friction, as we oft do). I measured my piss velocity, with a full bladder, and the muzzle velocity was negligible, but it did accelerate at 9.8 meters per second squared as it dripped to the floor. (Does Romco make a urinary tract de-clogger? I hope it works on metal shavings.) But wait, Moist, what if you got a running start, could you increase your piss velocity to exceed Earth's escape velocity? Or maybe have another beer to get more bladder pressure? Well, curious one, those are stupid questions for another day. But, I will tell you, from past experience, having another beer is usually a good idea, and peeing while running without wetting your trousers takes some talent to achieve. We'll assume that the human body is not capable of pissing faster than 25,000 miles per hour. If you know anybody that can surpass that speed, I'm sure NASA would like to meet that person.

Let us take what we have learned and apply it to the real world. Say you had a fight with the sun, or the sun burned your nipples too much, or maybe the sun heated your car and you fried your ass on your black, vinyl seats, or whatever, and you are holding a grudge against it. One day, you were speaking to a cohort and the subject of the sun came up, and you expressed your unfavorable feelings about it using a version of an appropriate jibe. Instead of saying, "I wouldn't piss on/in the sun even if it were on fire", you would say, "I wouldn't piss in the vicinity of the sun, assuming I wasn't closer to a relatively stronger source of gravity to which my piss velocity could not conquer its gravitational requirements, even if it were on fire."

As you can see, when answering a stupid question, other stupid questions emerge. What can humans do to increase their piss velocity? Can that piss velocity be increased enough to match Earth's escape velocity? How do women piss in sponges? Why are so many people pissing in sponges? Why isn't "gravitationous" a real word? Do you think Newton actually discovered gravity while trying to piss on the sun, but chose to promote his discovery with that apple story because it was more socially acceptable? Did he accept money from the apple growers lobby? Or was Newton pissing in a sponge? What kind of person holds a grudge against the sun? Is NASA looking for people with strong pissing velocities? How about drippers? Is the sun actually on fire, or is it of fire (as in a ball of fire)? There are countless others. The point is that all new knowledge brings about new questions, which leads me to believe that we have indeed answered this stupid question.

If you have a stupid question you would like Leper Pop to answer, please send that question to leperpop@yahoo.com, attention Amanda Hugginkiss. Who knows, maybe it will become a recurring bit.