she would run seminars to recruit villains into her scheme and make them set up colossal affiliate networks.
eventually all the supervillains in town were so busy selling her program to other supervillain wannabes that they didn't have any time for actual crime.
she ended up being given the keys to the city by the mayor.
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DJ Champion - Alive Again vs Ubisoft I am Alive.
start them at the same time!
Bonus track! Stealing the Enterprise vs I'm On A Boat!
wait - updated version here
http://thekit.livejournal.com/1033429.h
old original version as follows:
* This time.
** Thuan-Jin Kee
It's 10:00pm. I wait until your sister has driven her humvee around the corner. I wait until you've closed the trunk, hiding the weapon we bought from view.
I look at you. You look like shit. You're strung out, exhausted. Neither of us have slept in days. We'd been going through this dance for weeks, trying to get each step perfect.
I wait until you hand me the Reset Button. I hand you the keys.
I wait until you bend slightly to unlock the doors of your ancient sedan. That's when I hit you with a fence post and keep beating you until you are dead.
-----
It's 10:05pm. You're in the trunk with the weapon's bulky green case. At the same time, you are walking towards the car. It's a previous you. I hope I can fake the conversation we're about to have.
The last two times the previous you walked up to our car, you were alive. You both began to have seizures and began bleeding from the ears and nose.
I thank God previous me was out buying maps or something otherwise I wouldn't have been able to grab the wheel when your foot blindly stomped the accelerator or you would have hit previous you, and then who knows what would have happened.
I'd have picked a spot to meet your sister and buy the weapon where we were guaranteed not to run into ourselves, but no more such secluded spots exist. We're everywhere, like some kind of dumb police force which undermines its purpose as it goes about its job.
I pretend that I'm previous me. I had to come back to get something, I say. No I haven't got the maps yet, I say. Previous you is still fresh. Maybe gone through the wringer only once or half a dozen times. The same day that starts around 5pm when the reset machine in the physics department powers up and spits us out. Each time we press the button, the reset machine disgorges us a little later. We were smart enough to know to get out of the building and hide before future us would show up. Only this time, I'm betting there's no more future you. For you, ze war is over.
I'm watching previous you. You look normal. You aren't bleeding. You finish the conversation with me, and walk back to your car.
-----
I'm driving. It's close to midnight. I'm feeling so tired that I wish it was me who was scheduled to walk up to the car, then you could have smashed my skull. We'd had this conversation - which spot to pick; who would have to die.
Your only request was that you not know when it was coming. So I waited, and you genuinely seemed not to mind.
I cross the state line into Pennsylvania. We'd tried other scenarios, the nights when we couldn't get the weapon. We'd correctly surmised that a future self had called your sister and made a last minute change to the meeting. Those nights we simply drove to the firing position and watched the passenger jets sail by. We were always too late to the other positions. We watched in horror with the knowledge that we had failed again. How many months of practice had we put in, to be defeated by basic logistics and simple travel time?
We tried changing our point of origin to other cities. Using air travel. We learned to ride motorcycles. All useless. Pity. The motorcycles would have looked badass.
Not bad for a pair of postgrad students. I read somewhere that engineers are four times more likely to become terrorists as students from other disciplines. They say Mohamed Atta was an architecture student before he went to Hamberg.
I think about you in the trunk. I think about how your mother would weep if she found out what we'd become. How she'd cry pulchritific tears and mourn the loss of her children, even though we're still out there, at large and in large numbers. My mother would weep also. But we are no longer the sweet children our mothers knew, and we haven't been for a long time.
-----
I get out of the car just after passing through Stony Creek. I hide the car. I know I'm around here somewhere, either a previous me on a scouting trip, or a future me if I fail. I have to be careful, to stay out of sight and to also remember my route and write it down in my tattered diary for future reference.
Monday night is almost over. People will be sleeping off their football and beer. Giants against the Broncos. To this day, I have no idea who won. If I were a betting man, I'd have memorized the score.
Actually, that would have been a great way to pay for the weapon we just bought. Good thing for us, your sister believed you when you told her that you needed the seeker head and that you wouldn't get yourself killed. One lie out of two ain't bad.
I pull the big green case out from under you, and carry its bloodied bulk down to the treeline.
-----
I wake up and frantically check my watch. It's 7am. I must have slept. In war, they are supposed to shoot soldiers who sleep on guard duty, aren't they? Maybe, or maybe not. Maybe they just have to clean the toilets or whatever soldiers call toilets. I don't know.
It's 7am. I'm not late. This is not a drill. I'm going to make it this time. As I crawl out from under the leaves, and mud, and shit, I hope nobody's found the car.
-----
It's almost 10am. I've installed the Battery Coolant Unit. A stream of frigid argon has flowed over the seeker head, clearing it's infrared vision. I'm facing northwest and a dot appears on the horizon, high in the sky.
I put the stinger missile to my shoulder. Through the sight I see a Boeing plane flying as no passenger plane ever should. In the sky, a battle of scalding water and beverage carts against hardened terrorists is occurring.
I know that if I stand here and do nothing, the cabin door will hold for another half hour. The aircraft will achieve a direct hit on the Capitol. A symbolic act, the politicians have already been evacuated. The image of the broken dome will be in the news forever, a dome for war to contrast Hiroshima's dome for peace.
If you had mastery of a small stretch of time, wouldn't you press the reset button? Try at least to change things?
I put the stinger to my shoulder and hit the IFF for the sake of drill. The civilian aircraft lacks a transponder and does not give a correct response. I hear the tone "Unknown/Hostile", but then I've never heard the "Friendly" tone and I don't know what it sounds like.
The number of our dopplegangers in the countryside is diminishing now. We're pressing reset buttons all across the country. Knowing we didn't get set up on time. Knowing that we'd failed. Why spend another minute on this earth? Why not start over? Why not layer another dangerous smear of confusing meddling onto the timeline. Have you ever thought that maybe this is the only way things could go down?
The missile locks onto a hot engine nacelle, the first time ever. I fire.
Forty people die.
As the pieces of the aircraft fall I pull out the reset button remove the batteries and resolve to smash it to bits, this time.
Re:Presumably... (Score:5, Interesting)
by QuoteMstr (55051) <dan.colascione@gmail.com> on Thursday November 12, @10:42PM (#30083230)
There are some ancient writings which no one knows how to read anymore. Will future archaeologists wonder what the microscopic pits in our coasters with holes in them are all about?
That's an interesting thought experiment. Let's say civilization fell and rose again, and that future archaeologists came across some of our optical discs. They wouldn't need much beyond 19th-century technology and mathematics to decipher them.
Once cleaned, 1,000-year-old discs would still shimmer the way they do today. Under a microscope (well-developed by the 19th century), pits and lands would be visible. A pit [freepatentsonline.com] is approximately the same size as a bacterial cell [wikipedia.org], after all. The pits and lands would form a recognizable pattern. That pattern looks nothing like binary, being a clocked encoding [wikipedia.org] of it. But it's obvious that a CD would spin, so eventually someone clever will realize that information is encoded at clock boundaries.
That having been figured out, these future archaeologists will see repeating patterns of eight units. Presuming that our language came down intact (much like Latin has to us), 19th century cryptanalytical [wikipedia.org] techniques could determine the correspondence of the mysterious 8-pit repeating units to letters. (After all, what is ASCII except a simple substitution cipher?)
ECC information would be gibberish, but it could be ignored. (And once even one Wikipedia backup were deciphered, the ECC information would be understood.)
Of course, there's a huge amount of information on each disc. It'd take a long time to go over even part of one by hand, but it could be done. After all, even in the 17th century, huge logarithm table [wikipedia.org] books were produced.
Once technology advanced a bit, it'd be possible to build an electromechanical system to read and print the contents of CDs. Even Babbage had a workable printer design [bbc.co.uk], and printing telegraph machines emerged by 1910. The hardest part for our future archaeologists would be reading the discs at high speed, for which (I think) they'd need a laser. But maybe the problem would stimulate them, and they'd build lasers before we got around to discovering the things.
Of course, this is just idle speculation, but it's fun!
On another level, Zalgo is a litmus test for online bullshit detection. The first skill on the internet is to tell between reality and illusion. Is the email from a company inviting you to an online product launch? Or are they phishing for your identity? Is your friend still your friend, or have they been hacked and zombified?
Zalgo's key traits blur the line between reality and illusion. The insistence that He Who Waits Behind The Wals is most definitely Not A Meme serves to promote both nervous laughter and a vestige of superstitious fear. The corruption of innocent childhood memories and the words of friends serves to produce a threat of viral infection which lends immediacy to the fear and makes the reader think "I'm next." The lack of an anthropomorphic personification of zalgo makes him more mysterious and omnipresent - one never interacts directly with zalgo, only his priests, yet one sees zalgo's unmistakable influence.
Recently Zalgo has fallen on hard times. SomethingAwful.com forums have grown tired of him. 4chan never thought he was funny in the first place. Bloggers eulogise him and giggle at the photoshops of their favorite childhood cartoons where verticle slit mouths erupt in the faces of charlie brown and garfield.
This is not the true spirit of Zalgo. I hope that livejournal may be a new and fertile field for the priests of zalgo to explore. Bring back the awe and fear that the internet inspires in its darkest and most exalted moments.
and most of all, apply the litmus test which separates those who know truth when they see it, and those who are swayed by the monstrous power of lies.
GNU Image Manipulation Program
www.gimp.org
zalgo text generator
http://www.eeemo.net/
ETA: HAHA DISREGARD THAT MY FLESH FOR ZALGO
͗̆ ̈bͦ̾ut̓̈͗̀̔,ͩ ̂̈́͆̇̉ͣͯa̒͗̀̍͂͐̿l̽̔̽̓̂ĺ ͊̇̚m̏űͫ̃̃s̅͌̈tͣͫͦͦ b̈́̐̏e͛̓ ̅ͯ͋̅ͣ͗ͥà́ͣ̐ĉͭ̈ͭ̽tͯͩ̾̃͑i̒͊͑̓̂̇v͂̏͊̄ͯ̾e̾
̄̏̊in̓̆ͬ̆ ̊̏thͭ̈́e̋ͤ̈̇͗̎ ͩp̓r͒̄̈́eͣ͆̄ͦ̓̏ͭp͗͆̌ͧ͊͑ar̎̑͆̉atͣ̐̅̊i̔̌̋͑̈́ö́
Os̢c̡a͟r ļoved ͝t ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐o͡ w̴o͠r̨k.
͞I̶án͜ N͞ag̕osk̴ì,
a̶ ͏f͡orḿida͡bl̶é musi̶c͠ia̶n in ̢h̨i͡s ̷own͢ ̢r ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐i͏ght,̡ ̨
i͠s o͟n҉e of͠ t͟h̕e̷ f̷orm̴er,̷ ҉and̵ ́his̢ love͞ ̡for ̀7͘8s ̵h͏as sp͟aw̢ņe͘d̕ ̡
Black Mi͞rror,
͏a ͟còlle͝ci͝t́on̷ ̧ơf̛ ͢e̸t͠hn͠ic m҉us̸ic҉ on ̢78͘,
̶no҉wprese̸rved d̀i͜g̢i͜ta͡l͘l̸y̨,
i͜n͞ ͡li̷n̵e͝ with̸ the̸ ҉la͡b͡e̸l's̵ p̵u̴r̨p̴os̵e̡,
t͡o͝ ͝pr̕o̕v́id҉e ͡a҉ur͝a͝l ͡a͡c̴c̵es̡s ̴to a new au̴dìence
̷d́eca͞de̢s ͢a̛fte͞r͘ ͏the ͏re͝cor̶ds҉'̴ orig͡i̴na̕l rel҉ea̢s̡e,̕
͢a̶n҉d͡, i͏n ͟th͡e ͜ca̛s͘e͠ ̴o͠f m͟os̛t̀,͡
f̛ór͞ ͟t̴h̨e͠ f̷irs̶t t͠im͘e ̢
i̷n̶ ̸t̀h͠e Un͡ite͝d͏ ͢S̕ta̧te͠s.
Yea̕h, Hob҉o̷la̸d̀, i͡td b̴e nice i̸f́ on̡ly̷ sol̀d̵ier͟s̴ had҉ tò d͜ie̡ in̵ ̵w͜aŗ,
bu͏t͝ ҉ítd ̵be͟ ̷n̵icer͢
i҉f ͞N̛O ͠ONE h̶ad̢ t͠o͠ ͡dié.̶
͠The R͞ight ̕W͠i̵n͠g̶ers̛ b̢e̵liev͢e͡ ̶evèr̨y̛thin͞g͘
t͢h͡e ҉o͠ff҉i̶c͞i͏al̷ s̡t̀or̨ies̀ tęl̢l̀
̴th̵em̨, ̸nom͜at҉te͜r h̵o̷w ͘m͜a̛ny̧ ҉t͢i͢mes t̴he ̶s͢t̶o͜r̶i̶es̕ c̨ha̛nge̴.
Ńot ́al̛l̸ ͠stu͜d͡eǹts̴ ͜ne̶èd̢ ̷tó a̕c̢t̸ ̷
b̀ùt͟, al̢l m͜u҉st̴ ͏be ͢a̢cti͡ve̴l̷y͠ ín̢vo̡l͠v҉ed̨ ̛
i̢n ͝t̕he̴ ̨pr̶epa͜r̨a̡t̶io͘n ̶of ͝t̛h̷e sçén̶e.
Th͉͈̜̼̥̞i͎s̟̰̗̙ ̦͕p̖̫̦r̞̲e̳̮̘͈su̬͓̱̟̼̝͇p͇̼p͙̰͇͇̠o̬̼̖͕͍̝s͕
a͞nd̷ ͝so̕ ̵an̢ authen̨t͜ic̴a̸t̀io ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐͜nf̛ra̴me̵wo̕rk ͡has̡ a̴l̕so b̀ee҉n̷ ad̸ded.̴
Įt̨ ̴i̛s͏ ̀my͜ unde͝r̴s̕tandin͢g̀ ̸th͟a̵t ̶th̵e tr͡ém͏
i͜s͟ ͞ádded digi̸t̷a̧l̶ly̕ ̧tò t҉he ͞un͝t͠r͢emm̨ed̨ samp͡ĺes͞ in̶ the̵ same͠ ̴wa̵y͡
͘a҉s ͏th̡e͘ tr͏em ̶4 ̛i̧n̕ ͜p̴re͟vi͢ous͞ ͢serie̶s͞ or͢g̛an̢s ҉d͏o̴e͜s.Íro͘ni͟cally͏t̢
h̀e҉ do͟ts wer͜e͜ ͜developed as͞ ̢
a̶ tec͟h̵n͢įq͘u͘e ҉
to ̢m̶as̕k
the͟ ͢morè ̴sac͢re͘d̕ ͞s͜y͜mb̛ol͟ìsm ̢
a͘n͜ds͘t͏o͏ri͝ȩs w͟h̢ìch͜ ̀were͝ ͜i̢nàp̵p̶rop̸r̶i̸até ̕fo͠r҉ gen͟eral ͟vi̶e̵wing.
N̰̗̭̙o̭̝̹̪t̫̥̯̗̖̝ ͚̩̩͓͈a̰͙̪͉̗̳lḻ͔̗̫͎ͅͅ ̲͇̺̖̮͕͙s͓͍̞̳̞t̘̩͇ṳ̖d̖̰̞e͍̺͙̼̮n͎͇͚̻̺̬̮t͙
͉̭̰̥̱͙͔b̗̠u̠̙̫̮͚t͍̯̪̟͔,͚͙̩̯ ̬̪̜a͙͕̬͖̝l͔͕̯̯̱̙̼l͙̬̪ ͎͓̯m͚͙̟̗̞u̯̠̗̲ṣ̱͉͖͙̟̺t̝̬̙͎̟͇̰ ̗b͙̬̗͓̜̣͎e͍ͅ ͔̻̖̯͚̥̺a̝c̫̬t̝̣i̩̫ve̲͔̯̥͇͚l̝̙̞̦͙͓ͅy̺̥̲̥̠
|
ą̳ͦ̓̿͜n̶̤̲̗̏̆̂ͥ̾́d͓̳̣̼̱̒̒͊̆ͩ̇̄ ̻̥̖͇̳̀T̨̜̺͆̓ͧͨͬh̶̖̜̤͓̗̿r̨͉͓͊̎̆͒̋̑̓͆͘ỉͤͭ |
but Z҉A҉L҉G҉O̚̕̚ will NO̚̕̚T pay cleaning bill.
Z҉A҉L҉G҉O̚̕̚ got improved replacement pedro to lick up m҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿
http://www.dealextreme.com/details.dx/s
LED bike wheel lights $4
http://www.dealextreme.com/details.dx/s
http://www.findwhitepapers.com/content3
-Shilts, Randy (1993). Conduct Unbecoming: Gays & Lesbians in the U.S. Military. New York, NY: St. Martin's Press. p. 387.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friend_of_
Now there's an episode of NCIS you'll never see.
Will DiNozzo "lose" his cell phone again when he goes under cover?
Will Jethro get his man?
A new study has found that the thinner your thighs, the greater your risk of heart disease.
The research, published in today's edition of the British Medical Journal, reveals that thigh circumference is linked to the risk of heart disease and premature death.
The study looked at more than 2,800 men and women with an average age of around 50.
It found that the risk of heart disease more than doubled for both men and women who had a thigh circumference of less than 55 centimeters (22 inches).
Those participants with thighs between 55 and 60 centimeters (22 and 24 inches) received a protective effect against heart disease, the study reports.
But that protective effect reduced for people with thighs above 60 centimeters (24 inches) in circumference.
Would it have really cost much more to just add one more question to this study and ask if the people with big muscular thighs walked more than the people who didn't?
Distances vary from race to race, but children’s triathlons are still a step up from, say, a half-mile fun run. At the Silicon Valley Kids Triathlon, for example, children 6 and under are asked to swim 25 yards, then bike one mile, then run a quarter of a mile.
they are super popular, with races of 1000 kids.
she went to the temple of truth, which was a large circular maze made of rammed earth.
it was an easy maze, and at the center there was the room of truth.
funnily enough, when she got to the center the path diverged one last time: on the right was the room of truth and on the left was the gift shop.
on an impulse she chose the gift shop, reasoning she could visit the room of truth later.
on entering the gift shop she suddenly found herself in, well, a tacky gift shop. there was no trace of the maze, or the temple or the door she just walked through.
in the gift shop the cashier told her:
the lump in her breast was a physical manifestation of a re'kaab (one who is here), the cashier is a re'kaahel (one who came later) so she has no power to help: the re'kaab are an order above her and beyond her ability.
that the re'kaab was in her was very un-orthodox. usually if somebody wanted to destroy a town, they would convince a re'kaab to take up residence in a mare's breast - manifesting as a large mass surrounded by an inflamed capsule which would make medical examination draw the wrong conclusions.
the cashier told her that she had about a week before the re'kaab was mature.
the woman said it didn't matter. all that mattered was that she finished her report.
the woman went to a desolate place away from all people. in the wasteland she finished writing her report and placed it somewhere it would be found.
then she went further into the wasteland and sat in an open field, waiting for the end.
at the appointed time, there was a great earthquake,
the ground around her subsided and broke into tiny sharp rocks, and then the tiny butte of land that she was sitting on collapsed into the slide of jagged gravel.
she fell through the rockslide like a raft shooting the rapids.
then she woke, bloodied but whole, in an office building.
a computer was on a desk, it had a message for her.
the message said that the re'kaab had chosen her to be equal partners, not food.
it was up to her to decide if that was to her liking.
- Steve Vinoski
http://erlang.org/pipermail/erlang-ques
"The layers of complexity required to maintain the resulting leaky illusion of local/remote transparency are reminiscent of the convoluted equations that pre-Copernican astronomers used to explain how the Sun and other planets revolved around the Earth."
- Steve Vinoski (from "Serendipitous Reuse" http://dsonline.computer.org/portal/pag
also in the above post
http://beepcore.org/
the peer to peer protocol...
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