Scientists Will Surrender To Climate-Change Deniers on Slope of Volcano

This morning scientists worldwide announced their total and unconditional surrender to climate change deniers, asking only that their capitulation take place on the slopes of Popocatépetl volcano at tomorrow morning.

“We admit it, it’s absolutely impossible for science to make any predictions of future events based on current theory and measurements,” admitted leading volcanologist Magnus Pyroklastic. “Which is why we want all climate change deniers to gather together, in one place, to accept our surrender. And that place should be in the slight depression in the south face of the volcano at 11 am plus or minus an hour tomorrow morning.”

“This will be symbolic of science’s total failure at predicting events.”

Scientists are even now working feverishly in the crater to set up cameras and television screens around the projector area. This includes a heavily reinforced VIP zone for all the denialist politicians. “It’s important that there should be protection between such politicans and the rest of the population”, explained atmospheric scientist Skye Blough. “That’s why we’re setting up these layers of chain fencing. It takes hours for people to get through, so it’s safe, but is absolutely and instantly permeable to any gases or liquids.”

The scientists explained that the televisions are so that the scientists can surrender remotely, as they feel too intimidated by the denialists iron-clad ability to point out when a day is cold and declare “So much for global warming!” to face them in person.

The scientists say the surrender could take several hours, and that the climate-change deniers should employ their special skill of absolutely sticking to their current position no matter what new evidence comes their way.

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Irish Government Wiped Out By Alien Parasite

Ireland has been left without government  after a xenobiological infestation exterminated a large part of the Oireachtas. Earlier today senator Paul Bradford stumbled into Leinster House, the 18th-century Ducal Palace which acts as repository for the Irish government’s physical shells and moral views, with a scaled alien parasite affixed to his face. When security guards attempted to help with the horrific biological trauma being he hissed “There’s no such thing as an alien abnormality” before collapsing.

Taoiseach Enda Kenny swiftly leapt into action, pledging to establish constitutional convention to examine the issue, and whose convention’s recommendations would then be put to an Oireachtas committee, which would then explore possibly establishing a framework for future legislation, but only if Fine Gael was re-elected, following the dissolution of the current Dáil. The last part of this statement was relayed by radio as he had side-stepped the issue so far he was now in Cork. Unfortunately his deflections didn’t divert alien parasites which leapt from Bradford’s exploding corpse to infect several more TDs.

Health Minister Leo Varadkar rushed to the bleeding and inflated deputies to apply emergency spin. He urged considered and careful debate on the alien parasite issue. He pointed out that there would never be any such thing as a perfect solution, and that the mounds of bleeding bodies and ruined lives he was standing directly on top of as Health Minister — a pile which had doubled in size during his rhetoric, leaving him standing knee-deep in blood and gore– were no evidence at all.

When one security guard suggested destroying the alien parasites before they emerged he was threatened with a fourteen year jail sentence, and told to be grateful as before it would have been life imprisonment. Another guard suggested just leaving the Dáil but was reminded that many people couldn’t afford to just leave Irish institutions behind forever no matter how many problems it would solve.

The most recent reports from the speaker of the emergency committee of surviving Dáil members said “Hssssssssssssss!” and extended a second pair of jaws from inside its regular jaws, dripping acid which burned the floor. It then announced plans to rescind the water charges and is expected to sweep the next election.

More Irish headlines:

 

 

 

Green Electric FFZERO1 Runs Entirely on Bullshit

Letv have unveiled the revolutionary new FFZERO1, a car powered entirely by Public Relations bullshit.

ffzero1

“This is truly the car of the future” said Smiley Flakman. “Because it doesn’t exist in the present. It harvests the infinite resource of excited tech shills desperate to make their hourly article quota, amplifying our high-performance brand acceleration engine.”

The car is a picture of a 1,000 horsepower all wheel-drive carbon fiber cocoon hypercar, which can also rotate its wheels and fly like the DeLorean in Back to the Future if you close your eyes and just dream hard enough.

“Yes, this physical shell has a top speed of zero, not being a real item or having any technological merit whatsoever,” continued Smiley, “But the spirit of this car can move at the speed of your hope. Other electric cars claim efficiency by merely using less fuel with their actual functioning physical bodies, but we’re efficiently getting a free global PR campaign without any fuel, or engine, or even a passing familiarity with the laws of economics or thermodynamics required to even pretend something is possible!”

“It’s a tablet with wheels!” At this point Smiley visibly froze, loading icons rotating in his pupils as he accessed the latest SEO tables. The assembled reporters held motionless as well, confusing this bizarre action for part of the PR package they were expected to regurgitate precisely. Several excited reports of the event included five pages of blank space which wasn’t removed by a copy-editor, because none of them work for places which have those those, but were rather reduced to a single space by their blog’s CMS.

Smiley suddenly span up again. “It’s a bean to bar car! It’s a four-wheel Force Awakens! It’s a hot single-driver-vehicle in your area ready for action TONIGHT!”

DISCLOSURE: The author is just annoyed that the ridiculous fictional future electro-car FFZERO1 will make it even more impossible to find any news of a sequel to ridiculous fictional future electro-car game F-ZERO.

Space Marines Do It Better: Apex

The Catachans were scared of the jungle. Seven words which threatened the entire Jautjex campaign. The Rolling Iron tankers of Sherman’s world, where cribs were fitted with toy promethium motors so that infants learned to sleep through the rumble and stink, flinched at every noise. The 7th Cuchulains — masters of city clearance despite a tendency to treat bars as primary targets — sang no victory songs and only muttered into their drinks. Sure, it was only in the jungle, went the stories, but anything which could kill a Catachan in the jungle could kill anyone else anywhere. The Death Corps of Krieg 544th company said nothing. They marched into the jungle and were never heard from again.

The Imperium’s relentless advance slowed, and stalled. Even minor operations bogged down and ballooned into costly engagements. The Astra Militarum’s mailed fist weakened as the blood of morale was drained by rumor. And all the while Catachans continued to die in the green. Their new fear should have made them cautious, but the resulting shame made them suicidal. Squads tore into the undergrowth desperate to prove their valor, only to find the still-dripping chunks of their predecessors and one sobbing soldier babbling tales of the jungle itself rising to kill them all.

Karn-Tor hung from the branches thirty meters above the trail. The hunt was beginning to bore her. The prey were plentiful and loud, but had become embarrassingly easy to kill. She’d already proven everything she intended, challenging herself on the hunting ground of a planetary conflict, and had to admit to herself that continuing bordered on gluttony. She’d hoped to draw out the elite of this species and was saddened to imagine that she seemed to have found it. It was probably time to move on.
Movement. Herd approaching through the undergrowth on either side of the trail. Thermal lenses revealed eight, no, ten figures. Much larger before. She smiled behind her mask. Maybe this world would offer one last indulgence. She flexed her hands, rolled her neck, waking the muscles in preparation of flensing to come. Perhaps even a trophy. As they came into view she saw some kind of black armor…
Everything exploded. The world disappeared in fire and concussion.
Thermal lenses overloaded, sheer reflex kicked her off the branch. But hot shrapnel tearing through vines and mosses meant her foot slipped through the mulched vegetation to send her plummeting to the ground. Even as she twisted to catch a vine she saw her intended destination disappear in a blaze of fire.
Accident.
The thought cut her like a poisoned blade leaving a wound which would never heal. Accident. She had survived by accident. These filthy prey would scream to give her atonement before night fell. They would fail, but that is what prey were for.
Her invisibility shroud rippled green and brown to hide her from sight as she vaulted across the canopy. But the explosions followed. She lengthened her leaps, aiming further, faster, but she saw more massive black figures emerging from the trees to her right. She zagged through the massive trees, increasing to sinew-tearing speed, but then the trunks to her left erupted with craters. Yet more of the hard-shelled prey emerging on the right. She cut low, sacrificing vantage for sheer speed, dropping to the ground into a full sprint. How big was this herd?
The explosions never stopped. She outran death with every footfall. Only now did her echolocator compensate for the cacophony to pick out distinctive prey signatures. The waterfall of static along the left of her mask display resolved into distinct detections, triangular glyphs scrolling across the bottom.
Close range: low frequency: machinery/combustion — crude transport rockets. Ten signatures. Ten signatures. These were all the same ten prey, flanking her.
Hunting her.
Sheer suicidal rage almost killed her on the spot, sacrificing her escape and her self to stand and spit on such an affront. Karn-Tor was a hunter. The greatest in her clan. Possibly the greatest in her tribe. She had collected trophies from all this galaxy’s most dangerous prey. An Ork skull so large it was now her trophy cabinet, containing the heads of Necron and Dark Eldar alphas, embellished with carved shards of Zoanthrope scale. Her soul held no doubt she was the greatest hunter alive.
But she was no warrior.

A mere hunter operates on their own terms. They understand that they might die, but they never willingly offer themselves for death. Faced with unexpected reversals their first instinct is to flee, to lick their wounds. Then return to base re-arm and restore the total advantage over their targets they enjoy so much.
Karn-Tor angled towards the preparations she’d made only as a matter of excellent hunting technique, with no thought to actually using them. She dove into a gully cut in the jungle by one of countless waterways, through false netting of expertly cut vine and fronds. As she crawled down the narrow channel, far too small for the bulky giants behind her, the plasma cannon on her shoulder rotated to spit an actinic globe backwards, collapsing the entrance.

Karn-Tor’s ship was buried deep in a narrow ravine in the rock with snares set on the only approach. She ducked through the hatch, sealing it behind her, and swung across to the pilot console. She settled into the single pilot throne. She would take fine trophies from these new prey to slake her shame. And if they were still alive as the flayed them, well, that would only…
Cold metal at her throat.
Shadow Captain Kyre appeared behind her. There was no other word for it. The heavy gauntlet which was suddenly holding the knife was painted black. Another slowly turned her chair, that she might see him. No. That he might inspect his catch. The same hand raised and tore the tribal mask for her face, revealing her blotched skin and fanged mandibles. She could feel disgust pulsing even through the glowing lenses of his armor. Harsh blare thundered through a crude vox-grille.
“It is right that you hide your vileness from the Emperor’s sight. But none can hide from His justice. Even the darkest shadow cannot save you.”
The blade did not cut sideways but pushed forwards, servos shoving pushing the metal blade clean through flesh and bone.
“For the Raven Guard are already there.”


More glory to the Space Marines in

 

Bonuses Above and Beyond the Call of Duty

Behold the Bonus Material! I wrote a complete military history of Call of Duty for the cool folk over at Den of Geek, and when they pushed their plate away after only the main series entries, full of fantastic faux-fighting fun, that meant more material for you!

THE ABSOLUTE WORST: Black Ops: Declassified

Military history is littered with new inventions which just didn’t work and the corpses of those who tried to use them. Black Op: Declassified was released on the PS Vita, and worked about as well releasing the pin from a grenade. Inside a tank. That’s been filled with napalm for no adequately explained reason, but would still be more potentially useful than this disaster of a game.

You could finish the single-player campaign faster than you could field-strip and reassemble a rifle, and you’d be better off throwing the dismantled parts at an enemy than trying to use the touch controls on this unstable multiplayer network. And the AI enemies were so stupid that would work, because they wouldn’t know which part of the gun was actually the bullets and would assume they were dead. Either that, or they’d just got stuck against one of the walls again.

Strike Team

Strike Team was the iOS and Android entry in the series, and just like the little portable screens it was released on it turned out to be surprisingly useful. A drone’s-eye view lets you tap and swipe commands to your elite military unit, like a tactical tinder, and if they’d developed the whole game around that it would be higher on the list. Unfortunately it also insisted it was a “real” Call of Duty game with a first-person shooter mode controlled by touchscreen-thumbsticks. Which work about as well as touchscreen-dentistry, and are even more painful. Like any computer-expert geek trying to prove they could fight combat by jumping into real combat, it was crippled and just slowed everything else down.

Finest Hour

Finest Hour happened when Activision asked “What if we try releasing Call of Duty on consoles?”, and it’s still the closest anyone has come to programming a money volcano. This wasn’t a simple port of the original but an entirely new title, back when developers made an effort to convert titles instead of throwing the code at a new compiler and making their coders work overtime until it fit. Finest Hour featured an interleaving multi-fronted story with more understanding of the World War than most of the people who fought in it. It wasn’t so much a new release as a revelation.

Now go read the real article!

Ridiculously Sexy Video Game Costumes

vgcostume

Video game fashion would require event the most Parisian catwalk to be transported to the International Space Station, being not so much avante garde but actively anti-gravity. Because video game anatomy is a bizarre biological arms race, except there’s nothing biological about it and they’re aiming exactly between the arms.

We behold some of the most ridiculously sexy video game costumes, the most tragic application of Nintendo Difficulty, and wonder what exactly it is about dreamy dwarven pectorals that so terrifies game developers.

Guns Guns Guns!

gunsgunsguns

The pen is mightier than the sword, and the keyboard lets me write far away from all the guns. Which I did! Behold bonus material cut from the original for length. Eighth and eight-point-fiveth idiotic arguments against gun control:

We’re Going to Get Shot Anyway

When confronted with ludicrous levels of directly gun related death — to the point where the FBI homicide tables are broken by state and type of gun, with only a single column for “other weapons” — some people attempt to sound reasonably by saying there are too many people with guns out there to tackle. Which is the exact opposite of the point of having a government in the first place. If American responded to fires the same way they responded to shootings, they’d legalize flamethrowers and defund the fire department.

It’s a remarkable strategy. Recognizing that you could be shot at any time because of countless lethal weapons floating around without any regulation and thinking  “Well, better get started!” But “we’re fucked anyway, might as well volunteer for ten more shots” only works for a night out drinking, not with lethal weaponry.

A government which doesn’t ban guns shouldn’t be allowed to ban anything. Especially drugs. At least then people are only shooting up themselves, and enjoy the experience.

Target Shooting

Target shooting is just practicing to get better at people shooting. If people truly cared about only the competitive aspect all those billions of dollars would be going into developing paint pellets better balanced than Concorde’s nosecone. If we weren’t still suffering from an obsolete chunk of tribally murderous human brain then pellets and laser tag would be enough for everyone. In fact if guns worked like laser tag, where they could only hit other people wielding the same weapons, then we wouldn’t have a problem. After a few years nobody would have any problems.

Read more gun goodness with

7 Idiotic Arguments Against Gun Control

5 Terrifyingly Hilarious Gun Accessories

5 Reasons Even Gun Owners Should Hate the NRA

Court Declares That Badly Beaten Judge Was “Asking For It”

Two male defendants who violently assaulted Justice Robert Dewar in a Manitoba courtroom were cleared of all charges yesterday, when the court declared that the Justice had dressed provocatively and was “asking for it”.

“Flaunting himself in those red robes and that big wig”, said their defense lawyer. “In my clients’ experience, every man who dresses like that is out to put them in jail. He was just waving it all in their faces. What did he think was going to happen? How did he think they were going to act? He was just inviting this beating.”

The defense also specifically drew attention to how Justice Dewar was not wearing a bra.

“Maybe if he dressed more conservatively,” agreed the court bailiff, who eventually intervened in the savage and sustained beating. “I mean, it’s not like men have any decision making ability or motor control of their own. They just have a simple stimulus-response which strangely absolves them of all responsibility for their actions, but still counts as enough free will that they’re not locked up for their own protection. His robes really were like waving a red flag to a bull.”

Justice Robert Dewar’s current condition is described as “a stupid sexist asshole who shouldn’t be in charge of so much as a street crossing.”

Uses For Separate Hot and Cold Taps

If you’re reading this from the fabled First World of Indoor Plumbing, you may not know that Ireland and the UK still feature separate hot and cold taps. You might then reasonably assume that we also burn dried cow shit in our stoves, burn strangers, and have the local blacksmith to pull rotten teeth with a pair of tongs while we slug whiskey and clutch crudely-cured leather belts. But it’s only our washbasins which have been held in stasis, as if our kingdoms were once cursed by a hydrophobic witch.

  • But as you revel in your unicorns of hygiene, those magical single taps which can caress human skin without flaying or freezing it, you might not know the manifold uses of separated taps:
  • Not letting your left hand know what your right hand is doing, especially when that thing is screaming in pain.
  • Generating emergency power from an efficient thermocouple which anachronistically exists in a time when people apparently can’t work out how to join two pipes together.
  • Honoring the Thing of the Fantastic Four, who sacrificed his ability to feel almost anything with his rock skin, with one everyday item which might just lend sensation to his solid stone epidermis.
  • Waiting for water to mix provides ample time for thought, and where better to reflect on the realities of life than a room where you’ve just taken a shit?
  • Reminding peons not to take more than the barest moment away from their assigned workstations.
  • Reinforcing the lesson that many systems allegedly built for your comfort and convenience simply do not care, and would rather hurt you every day than make the least effort to change.
  • A reminder that humans cannot be trusted, as many would rather install a brand new cover with the exact same problems than fix the deep systemic flaws affecting the most vital necessities, such as the rotten and unhygienic water systems which first necessitated the use of separate taps.

Star Trek: Superior, Series 2

Continuing the adventures of Starfleet’s finest aboard the USS Defiant-B.

(minor edit, “Linear” award makes more sense than original “Ouroborous” award)


More Federation fun with

5 Ways Thunderbirds Beat Star Trek

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