Russian nesting dolls inside of Russian nesting dolls, stories inside of stories, movies inside of movies, and so on represent recursion. Casual observers of these examples may think the definition of recursion is something that is being defined by itself. This definition is incomplete because if it were true, the Russian nesting dolls would be never ending, an infinite regress. A recursion never leads to an infinite regress or paradox because its not defined in terms of itself, but instead in terms of a simpler version of itself.
Propositional Calculus allows the carry-over from the real world into the fantasy world. Continue reading “Recursion & The Fantasy Rule”
“Just because you can think it doesn’t necessarily mean it should be conceived.” – Tate.
Intergalactic Bureaucratic Procedures for Handling Sensitive Information
The negative impact of these ideas must be carefully, and properly erased from the Universe. This shall be executed according to the Intergalactic Department of Defense Secure Erase Procedures. The Intergalactic Panel agrees with the Tate, we need to reestablish harmony within, around, through, over, and under the dimensions known and unknown. All information pertaining to the creation of these monstrosities must be gone. No artifacts can be left. Continue reading “Operation Nuke & Pave: Ballistic Payloads and Other Destructive Machinations Disrupting the Universal Harmony. Things Humans Made that Make Really Big Explosions for No Good Reason, and Hurt Beings in General.”
- 3 Days in a Polar Vortex
- Last Day at Pergolesi’s
- Wonderflonium is not an Element
- Two PCs and One DJ
- A Tree is Gonna Tree
What happened to the good ol’ “crackers” I’ve read little about?
What happened to the Silicon Warrior, One-Eye, The Atom, The Cog, Hot-Rod, The Micron, The Cloak, The Cracksmith, the I.C., the “old” pirates of 1200 Club, MPG, and all the others?
I know the Silicon Warrior retired. Mr. Krac-Man, he too retired after “kracking” Super Zaxxon.
Where did they go?
Mr. Chaos frequents the downstairs space of Nana’s and Pappi’s home, but it’s not just one room. He has commandeered the whole floor. My refuge, exists on the second floor. I have halted his territorial expansion by declaring the upstairs as a space only for girls. This declaration works most of time, except for when Pappi also seeks asylum in one of the unoccupied bedrooms; therefore, the second floor is a sanctuary to all who need a cessation from Mr. Chaos’ antics. Continue reading “The Chronicles of Mr. Chaos – The Sanctuary”
Screamers, a tire, and banana.
Something went wrong with the banana, triggering a ballistic reaction from little Miss Muffet.
Quickly! plan A. Put on her latest favorite distraction, Dreamwork’s “Trolls”.
Shuffle through the array of remote controls from various manufacturers, looking for the matching devices, one for the TV, and one for the Blue Ray. Found the matching remotes, good.
Getting the TV to the correct settings. Pressed the “input” button too many times. Cycle through TV, HDMI1, HDMI2, HDMI3, again. Stop. Blue Ray on, disk in, load, press play.
Finally, the opening scene where Poppi tells the history of Trolls and Bergens begins to assuage Miss Muffet’s outrage at the banana. Whatever was wrong with the fruit will remain an unsolved mystery.
Phew. DEFCON alert status can go back to GREEN.
Just after Poppi gets to the part where the Bergens find there are no Trolls to celebrate Trollstis, Nana returns with Mr. Chaos. She was supposed to be taking Mr. Chaos to his pre-school. I’m thinking, “There’s not going to be a Trollstis this morning”.
Nana, “Tire’s flat.”
I’m not awake.
Nana’s had her morning coffee, her morning news.
She’s rattling off what we need to do about the tire.
Nana, “Put on the spare. Take it down to Midas…” I’m still not quite conscious.
Nana, “Do you want to stay here with the kids? I can take it to get the tires replaced.”
On any other day, Nana doesn’t leave the house, except for her ritual grocery shopping. I know she’s asking if I want to stay with kids because it will jolt me out of my slumber.
“No!” I blurt as I get up from the couch, mumbling and cursing her car’s tires and crappy rims.
Go to my cell on the second floor to seek tranquility while I wash away the seeds of slumber with a cup of coffee.
I’m not a morning person. I need the caffeine to take hold before I go out into the 33 degree F environment, to change a tire, or two. Most likely two tires. This isn’t the first time those tires have gone flat. Hopefully not two because there’s only one spare. In fact, its become a habit to pack the car with the portable air compressor.
“It’s those God damn rims. I know it is.”
Nana’s choice of vehicles tend to create a plague of misfortune and is something to explore, but not this morning.
I smolder over the fact that I have chosen to let my Subaru slumber in “Non-operational Status” because once again the tires on Nana’s vehicle are flat.