It’s that time of year again. io9 is about to head down to Austin, Texas for a week of fun, fucked-up films at Fantastic Fest, one of the coolest, most unique genre film festivals in the entire world. For a full week, the fest shows only the weirdest, most out-there, totally badass films that are coming soon to…
I may know about sports, but I will never know when to correctly use “effect” or “affect.” Ironically, I bet the guy who wrote this tweet didn’t know the answers in these categories! I can barely handle playing Scrabble.
You asked for my criticism of your verses, so let me state right off the bat: don’t bust a move, at least until you’re prepared for love’s deeper possibilities—solitude is the most essential quality for the development of an artist. Also, one should not dance at high-class luncheons, even if music comes on. That music is for atmosphere. That said, I found your poem compelling. I read it over and over. I devoured it. I stone-cold munched it.
I have no advice regarding your poem: artists should look inside, not outside, for approval; still, you probably shouldn’t rhyme “party” and “body.” Speaking of parties with scantily clad girls showing body, I’m intrigued. The events I attend are all shirtwaists and mild décolletage at best. I should like to attend.
I concur that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places, but the problem isn’t a lack of fine girls and a surplus of ugly faces, though that could also be true, of course. The right place to look is your childhood, nature, solitude. Your first inclination to become a monk and leave the situation is sound. The image of hanging oneself with a celibate rope is poignant, and almost certainly the best option for now. You should be on a mission to embrace your lonely condition.
I trust the “uh, huh, yeah, huh, uh, huh, yeah, huh, just bust a move, huh-uh, hey, huh-uh, yeah, uh, huh, yeah, huh, huh” stanza is a typo.
As a married man lo these many years, I can’t say whether women these days are faking and goodness-saking, and want a man who brings home the bacon, though I will take your word for it. Still, I remind you that you have chosen the life of a poet! You will have no money, you will have no car, you will have no woman, and there you are. On the plus side, your soul will expand to fill the vastness of your solitude.
A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity, but the necessity herein seems to be helping poindexters “sex.” Perhaps there are richer themes. I’m intrigued, for example, by your best friend Harry who has a brother Larry who in five days from now is going to marry. Why are you the best man, and not Harry? Does Larry not have his own best friend that he must borrow his brother’s? Why is there still doubt about your attending the wedding five days out? This dynamic is rich, a worthier subject for exploration than bridesmaids, however stacked they may be. (I mean, how stacked are we talking? Write and let me know.)
Your verse, while appealing, is dripping with youthful macho boastfulness. I can relate: my first collection was Elegy to Boobs, a desperate attempt to convince my schoolmates that the sensitive boy with the middle name “Maria” was actually a regular Casanova. It didn’t work. I would recommend that you check your libido.
And a word of caution: you must be careful not to be defined by these verses. You don’t want to be a one-poem wonder. I, for example, fully expect to be remembered for my carefully crafted elegies and sonnets, and not my correspondence with teenagers.
I am moved by the great confidence you place in me, and urge you to persevere. The life of a poet is challenging, but if you want it, you got it.
Yours, Rainer Maria Rilke
P.S. This goes without saying, but please don’t publish these letters. The last thing I need is a bunch of randos reading my mail.
This common but surprisingly dangerous creature dwells in billions of households worldwide. Your child may appear harmless, but it uses guile and special abilities outlined below to disrupt your life and drain you of leisure, wealth, and peace of mind, ultimately leaving you a depleted shell of the person you had been before becoming a parent.
Thirst for revenge. Your child’s fury is born in the shriek it gives with its first breath, as it emerges from a paradisial world of warmth and security into the cold reality of this plane of existence. This scarring experience motivates your child to seek revenge—even if it takes decades. Your child is clever though, and it knows its survival depends on maintaining bonds of affection with you, so it enacts its deliberate vengeance in subtle, almost hidden ways that evolve through several phases.
As a baby, your child is physically helpless but gains a +12 bonus to its charisma score. This “cuteness bonus” will engender so much love in you that the baby’s facial expressions as it passes gas will seem endearing. The baby also has a special ability it can use up to twice per day to shoot from its backside a quantity of noxious liquid that will overwhelm any diaper. This attack will automatically interrupt whatever activity you are attempting to concentrate on, such as work or trying to just enjoy a movie for once; roll 3d6 and multiply by ten to determine how many minutes you lose cleaning up the resulting mess.
When it becomes a toddler, your child gains “demonic speed.” Your child can use this ability unlimited times per day to run toward any source of life-threatening danger, such as a busy highway, a steep drop, or an uncovered electrical outlet. This attack forces you to take action to block your child by putting your own body in harm’s way. By the time your child is four, you’re guaranteed to have either a bad back or a bum knee.
At school age, your child’s intelligence score becomes higher than yours by at least two points, so that you have a disadvantage in any contest of wills or attempt to get the child to clean its room. Your child also gains invulnerability to reverse psychology at this stage.
As a tween, your child begins a physical transformation that can be terrifying to witness, as it slowly and sickeningly molts into its adult form. Amidst this change, your child becomes an agent of chaos and can disrupt any established plan. For instance, if you need to choose a restaurant and you select one your child previously declared their favorite, they will now hate it and use either whine or sulk attacks to ruin the rest of your evening.
When it morphs into a teenager, your child makes random mood rolls at least once per day and uses the result to make an area attack that affects the entire household, often by slamming doors or loudly weeping. You have no defense against these attacks and will be constantly upset and confused. At this age, your child will establish a lair, which it decorates with symbols of power and hatred for its oppressors, such as heavy metal posters or crudely scrawled middle fingers. Your child withdraws there to recoup power for its next attack, and while wearing headphones is invulnerable to any request to help carry in groceries. The teenager also gains pack abilities and can move in large, coordinated groups with other teens. Each member of a pack of teens gets a bonus for any rudeness attack on its parents, causing 12 points of ego damage any time you try to remind them of their curfew.
If you survive raising your child for eighteen years, you automatically lose any treasure you’ve accumulated when you try to pay for its college education. With that said, successfully parenting your child to adulthood is considered an epic feat and will be rewarded with knowing sighs and sympathetic nods from other heroic, exhausted parents. But beware: many children turn to evil no matter how many parenting books you read. For more detail, see the entries in this manual for bandits, assassins, necromancers, and tech bros.
Esteemed colleagues, musicology scholars, delegates from the CDC and C+C Music Factory, thank you for joining me today. As you are aware, I, Doctor Gloria María Milagrosa Fajardo García—known to the nonacademic world by the stage name Gloria Estefan—have devoted my life to the scientific study of rhythm.
Thirty-five years ago, through my groundbreaking research, I discovered a sound that would become the world’s most potent source of clean energy: Latin fusion.
However, the engine embedded within that energy, pure rhythm in its rawest state, proved to be highly volatile. It required constant conga beats and up-tempo island brass to keep it safely contained. This is why I established Miami Sound Machine: a collective of the top dance-pop analysts from around the globe… but mainly southeast Florida.
Through various studies and LPs, the Miami Sound Machine and I worked tirelessly to restrain the rhythm and its various mutations. But after three decades I fear we’ve met our match. The advanced codon-optimization technique we established in 1985 (“O eh, o eh, O eh, oh aah; O eh, o eh O eh, oh aah”) does little to counter this new antigenic variation.
As a result, the rhythm has evolved into what we in the musical sciences call an “extinction-level groove.”
Make no mistake, I come to you today not to offer advanced intonation or health guidelines on how to protect yourself from this new strain of rhythm. This is not a warning. Because the rhythm is already here.
I’ve prepared this grave yet funky-fresh presentation to further explain the serious nature of the situation. It pains me to say this, but the rhythm is gonna get you.
Next electric slide.
As you can see from figures 1, 2, 3, 4, the rhythm shuts down a host’s respiratory system 5, 6, 7 times. Eight, 9, 10, 11—it doesn’t matter how old the subject is. Social distancing and masking do nothing to resist it. Again, it bears repeating: the rhythm is gonna get you. Tonight. But probably during the other sixteen hours of the day as well.
Slide to the left.
Like any viral phenomenon, the rhythm has no consideration for the structural integrity of the space it occupies. Raising the roof, dancing on the ceiling—I’ve attempted all manner of physical transfiguration. The rhythm lays waste regardless. You can fight it every day. But no matter what you say. You know it. The rhythm is gonna get you.
Slide to the right.
The most you can do is prepare for when the rhythm enters your body. Most importantly, do not fight it. Let the rhythm take control. Let the rhythm move you. Sweat. SWEEAAAATTT is the first and last symptom.
Crisscross.
What could modern musicology have done to stop this? Well, as you’ll recall, we made every attempt to protect humanity by setting up the Oritario Natural Etudes and Historically Interval Themes initiative. These ONE HITs were made possible by the research of Louis Bega, Ph.D., Doctor Ian “Silento” Greenbaum, and the Rhodes Scholar/ chronobiologist known only as “Cupid.”
These men produced highly advanced singles to harness the rhythm and keep humanity safe. And as of today, all are dead. Slain by the new variant.
This deadly rhythm cannot be subdued or classified through traditional dance steps. The Nae Nae is ineffective. Jumping up and down, then moving all around, only agitates it further. And steps to the left and/or right only localize the rhythm into a more concentrated permutation.
Everybody clap your hands.
Because this is not the end. Humanity will prevail. We will turn the beat around. The rhythm may carry all the action, but we can turn it upside down.
Do we have all the tools needed to defeat the rhythm at this measure? No. But what we do know is that rhythm is a dancer. It’s a soul’s companion. You can feel it in the air. This is why I’d like to welcome to the podium the greatest weapon humankind has against rhythm: the U.S. Government’s Anti-Rhythm Task Force, headed by Tim McGraw, Garth Brooks, and Carrie Underwood.
Video game consoles have evolved into multi-purpose entertainment hubs, letting gamers stream movies, chat with friends, and do far more than just play games. The 32-year-old Nintendo Game Boy, by comparison, was strictly a game machine—at least until Sebastian Staacks found a way to expand its capabilities, including…
You head out from Plymouth Rock in your covered minivan. You stock up on provisions: one side of beef, a pallet of goldfish, and three hundred bento boxes of aesthetically pleasing sandwiches for your children, Elvira and Max.
You pack a few cases of wine (#winemom) and shiplap siding for the van’s interior (#rustic).
The general store salesman offers you three muskets. But you are already armed to the teeth with self-affirmations from Instagram influencers.
Bonnets are out. You wear foundation with sunscreen as part of your skincare routine, so you’ll probably be fine.
On your first night on the trail, it snows. Fortunately, your mom jeans provide enough warmth and coverage for your family of four.
Elvira and Max refuse to eat any sandwiches. They have died of starvation.
You eat Elvira and Max’s sandwiches. They are delicious and delightfully shaped.
The beef and goldfish are gone now too. You guess it’s time to… hunt?
Without guns, you shout self-care affirmations at the deer.
DIRECT HIT! Instead of becoming venison, the deer step into their power and start new careers as life coaches.
They are named Terry and Doug, they’ll have you know.
You forage for berries. Google Images and WebMD suggest that they probably aren’t poisonous.
Your husband, Kyle, has died of poisoning. But he was a Kyle, so…
Newly single on the trail, you take some selfies for your IG Stories as you run your fingers through golden blades of grass. Your wide brim hat provides excellent sun protection and makes you look effortlessly chic.
You wonder whether these pictures would’ve looked better with your recently deceased family. You imagine their outfits—tasteful neutrals, askew bowties, shabby sweaters. You let out a small sigh of regret.
You approach Donner Pass. With Terry and Doug’s help, you climb through the snow, shoot deer (sorry, Ted and Donna!), and build fires out of Kyle’s ironic T-shirt collection.
It’s time to ford a river! Terry and Doug help you overcome your irrational fear of drowning while fording a river. #girlboss
You get through and plan your #FinishedtheOregonTrail post. Woohoo! You notice your phone has fallen in the river.
He laughed at the outdated traditions, the belief that the greatest achievement in any reindeer’s life was to serve Santa’s whims. Why?
He did not regret being expelled from the reindeer games. His only mistake was not leaving sooner.
As Rudolph walked alone into the vast, empty tundra of his solitude, many stared at him with resentment. It was an instinct Rudolph awakened in most creatures.
His nose lit the way.
- - -
Foreman Elf burst into the room, incensed at Hermey’s refusal to obey. “Why weren’t you at elf practice?” he roared.
Hermey remained silent, engrossed in the dental casts he had made of the sentient, anatomically correct snowmen of Christmastown.
Foreman Elf gazed upon Hermey’s heroic selfishness, at the freedom he embodied by serving his own interests. “Now, listen,” said Foreman Elf, suddenly unsure. “You’re an elf, and elves make toys.”
“You ask me to live as if altruism is the ideal,” said Hermey. “When every living instinct screams against it. We are incapable of true altruism. In this, an elf is trapped. He’ll be glad to obey—because he can’t trust himself. He feels uncertain, unclean—”
Foreman Elf had no idea what Hermey was talking about. Wanting to end the conversation, he said. “Whatever. You can open a dentist’s office next week, after Christmas.”
“No,” said Hermey. “To wait is a compromise. Even a small compromise is corrupt.”
Hermey chose instead to find work scraping reindeer dung off Santa’s sleigh. Beneath the swirling tufts of his blond hair, he was precise, without emotion, more coldly masculine than he had ever been before.
- - -
Clarice gazed at Rudolph’s nose, at the silent contempt blazing in its scarlet glow.
“They hate you, Rudolph. They hate you for your strength, your self-reliance, for being a… a misfit. This world won’t accept you. So to be worthy of you, I will choose to suffer. I’ll refuse to permit myself happiness.”
Rudolph nodded. “That is the only rational course of action.”
Clarice felt weak with a feeling of violent, physical pleasure.
“Rudolph,” she said, her pink polka-dotted bow trembling with passion, “I… I want to destroy you. So they can never touch you, never drag you down to their common level.”
“Do you think I would love you if you didn’t?”
- - -
Rudolph surveyed the eternal kingdom of weak, unwanted toys screaming to be saved. A water pistol that shoots jelly. A choo-choo with square wheels. A doll that has no physical deformities but suffers from low self-esteem.
“This feeling… is pity,” he thought, lifting his head in wonder. “There is something terribly wrong with a world where this monstrous feeling is called a virtue.”
He turned to watch the stranger, Yukon Cornelius, his orange hair whipping in the arctic wind. Yukon tossed a sharp pickax, cracking the world open to plunder its fortune. He left cruel fractures in the earth. “Yes,” thought Rudolph, determination flooding his body once more. “Greatness is achieved only through selfishness.”
- - -
“Well?” pleaded Santa, his rounded corpulence accentuated by sloped shoulders. “Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?” All the elves and reindeer eagerly waited to welcome Rudolph into their fold.
Suddenly, a giant explosion threw everyone to their knees.
Shards of destroyed toys flew in every direction. Santa watched, helpless, as tongues of dark fire licked the remnants of his factory and stables. Dark smoke rose to meet the stars.
“Why, Rudolph?” cried Santa weakly. “Why?”
Rudolph’s nose flamed, the light of the self-illuminating on the hostile crowd—and they knew suddenly they could not hate a being of such integrity.
“Common good is tyranny,” he said. “Charity is not the highest virtue, creation is. We enslave the elf, the reindeer, in order to give to the mediocre child. Why? Is freedom not the greatest gift? Therefore, we must teach self-reliance through suffering, for freedom can come only from strength, and strength comes from independence, not toys.”
Santa smiled. That instant, every man, elf, and reindeer was liberated—for only cold, unflinching reason sets man free.
Almost a decade before the world finally realized how tedious April Fool’s Day pranks are, Google revealed a farcical 8-bit port of Google Maps for the iconic Nintendo Entertainment System. The prank was quickly forgotten, but not by one maker, who, nine years later, has made the NES version of Google Maps a reality.
So, you bought an ornamental nut sack. You went ahead and did it. It’s made out of classy teak wood, highlighting the wrinkles and sheen of the typical male scrotum. It was a bold move. And now there’s one question, and one question only: Where do you put it?
You could put your ornamental nut sack in the fruit bowl on top of your table. You could gently rest it between a couple of Harry and David oranges, so people are almost unable to tell what it is, until they take a second look, a million different expressions crossing their face, as they turn to you and say, “Is that an ornamental nut sack?”
“Yes, yes, it is,” you might say.
“And… you bought it?”
“I did,” you say, nodding deeply, avoiding eye contact.
You could use it as a paperweight. It’s definitely heavy enough. Some say there is nothing better to keep receipts and business errata and other whatnots from flying away than a decorative nut sack, one with the carved out grooves and expert detailing that just really gives you a bracing sense of all the characteristics of this celebrated area.
You could put it next to a candle on the mantlepiece above a fire, just rest it there, so that it picks up the flickering light in a most appealing way. So that when people come over for a get-together, one of them might walk up and say, “What’s that?”
“Oh, this?” you might say. “It’s a sandalwood-scented candle.”
“No, no that,” the person might say, “the thing lying against it.”
“Oh,” you might say, looking down and rubbing the back of your neck. “I, I actually don’t know what that is,” you mumble.
“Because it looks like an ornamental nut sack.”
“Nope,” you say, not looking at them.
“Yep,” they say.
“Nope,” you say, glancing around the room.
“Yep.”
Then you might look at the person directly and say, with a slightly aloof and challenging air, “I don’t even know what that is.”
“You don’t know what a nut sack is?”
“No, I do,” you say, “but this thing on the mantle, I don’t know what that is, and, which, if you think it’s a nut sack, then that’s fine for you, but the verdict is definitely still out on whether it’s a nut sack or not.”
“It definitely is,” they say. Then they point to the engraving. “It even says ORNAMENTAL NUT SACK on it. It says what it is. It says it’s an ornamental nut sack.”
“Did you want some more eggnog?” you ask.
“Actually, I think I’m going to take off,” says this person, who then goes to grab their stuff.
Then, perhaps you take the nut sack off the mantle, and go into the kitchen and gently put it in the back of a cupboard, next to some old soup spices, and close the door. Because I think we can all agree that that’s where you keep an ornamental nut sack.
