Tag Archives: sex

The Internet Of Things Will Kill Us

Internet Of Things and Sex Toys

The Internet Of Things Strikes Again

I think it was a frigid Tuesday, the temperature ricocheting around between -18ºC and -25ºC (mind-numbingly cold even in Fahrenheit), the ice and snow pelting me by the evil, arctic winds it was carried upon, when someone asked me how I felt. Truth be told, I felt old. Old and creaky. Like a wooden chair, all finely carved and poorly assembled, and somewhat squeaky. And when weight is applied in any measure, quite creaky and a little unstable. This led me to think, ‘how should we really calculate our age?”

I am sure there is some Internet site that can tell me my age just by the shows I watch. Or by the expressions I use. Or by my fondness for sugary, mass produced confectionaries that were banned after the Vietnam war, yet appear regularly in my supermarket with misleading nutritional information (like 3 essential vitamins and minerals). But it can’t tell me how old I feel.

You see, while there are brilliant algorithms to determine much of what life is, how we will behave, what shoes we’ll buy, how we will not clean our toe nail clippers properly before giving them to our loved ones, etc., I don’t think those crafty mathematicians and scientists have come up with a method to determine the age you actually feel. That particular day, with the remnants of kidney stones tearing their way through my lower innards and an achy back from exerting myself too much on the ski hill, I certainly felt older than my current age would dictate.

My Smart House

If the Internet Of Things came to my house, and made my low IQ house even a little “smart” as the great minds of today promise it will, it could detect what kind of mood I am in, or how much pain I am working through after having schlepped the laundry upstairs while trying to balance an iPad, a glass of water and maybe some dry, sugary cereal I claim as my dessert. All the sensors would talk to each other, scan me, record and break down the decibels of my grunts and frequency of my “oys”, cobble together some kind of mathematcial result and spit a response on a screen with a synthetic yet soothing female voice saying “Mr. Druker, after deep data analysis and excruciating calculations our sensors and flawless programming believe that you should really update your will in the next hour because the statistical likelihood of you making it down the stairs without smashing your head is 0.0002%.”

My Internet-enabled house would begin to offer me a cane when I try to get off the toilet or have 9-1-1 on speed dial just in case I can’t open my various and sundry pill bottles and wind up losing my temper in a fit of rage. Again. It would probably have a flashing sign out front saying “Old fart lives here.”

Do the Math

Still that wouldn’t answer my question of how old I feel. To be honest, there is a simple way to calculate age that has nothing to do with what’s printed on your birth certificate or driver’s license. Currently, I have the  kidneys of a 70-year old boxer who has taken more than body blow. Add to that the knees of someone who has skied recklessly for decades, so let’s put those joints at 86 years of age. Bowels and the digestive system are well into the 60’s if you count the frequency of antacid pills I have begun to take with every coffee or remotely spicy food (say goodbye to Tabasco). The excess of body hair in places where it shouldn’t be, and the desert-like dearth of where body hair should be would indicate my telomeres and other assorted genetic material have begun unwinding like poorly tied French braids, or a cheap shoe lace with a crappy aglet. Let’s say that puts my general physique at 67 going on 90.

However, we have forgotten to account for my near OCD fondness for cartoons, comics, just about anything animated and detached from reality, which would put my viewing tastes at 11 years of age. Add to that my fondness for fart jokes and other sophomoric toilet humor and maybe I have the maturity level of a 14 year old boy just as his voice is cracking. Cap that off with my industrial-sized addiction to sugary foods and keen eye for the crappiest cereal in the breakfast aisle at the supermarket, and my dietary direction is that of a 13 year old.

If we also account for solar flares, the gravitational pull of various back holes, and my dangerous exposure to lead-based paints my parents painted my toys with when I was but an infant to see if I would turn out “low normal” then we could reasonably conclude that I am in 40’s.

But Sex Toys?

So what does any of this have to do with comic that has sunk a thousand ships and let to the creation of various moral bodies dedicated to condemning me on the Internet and radio shows? In frame 4 there is mention of some sex toys. It’s there for shock value and I wanted to work it into the story line because I am sleep deprived. It also got me to thinking, if EVERYTHING becomes a smart device, and is Internet-enabled with sensors and chips, that means no one can trust anything, not even their sex toys. You’ll need to worry if they have been talking to each other about your, uh, habits. No more privacy. Even your sex toys know how awful you are — and worse, they’ll talk to each other about how frequently you use them (you filthy pervert) and with whom, and why insufficient use of alcohol wipes is still an issue.

Well, on that note, let’s try and relax, go to sleep knowing that iPad or smart thingy next to you probably knows more about you than your significant other. Chances are your play with it more often that your significant other too. You all make me sick.

Exuberantly achy and parsimonious in handing out wisdom,

White Plum Asanga, Buddhist Rebel Druker

Backward Reading & Forward Looking


Stanko & Tibor: Reading Diaries


These Thoughts Fuelled by C12H22O11 and C8H10N4O

After a very strong, brain stem-rattling, intestinal-clearing espresso, I decided to eat what medical practitioners and health & nutrition experts commonly refer to in technical jargon as “baked death”, a.k.a. a gooey chocolate danish. Then after ingesting this, I couldn’t help but begin think about things — largely as a result of the consumption of the aforementioned sugar-drenched confection spawned by Satan’s best bakers that kicked my brain into overdrive, giving synapse impulses free reign to fire wildly and circumvent the the IQ-suppressing and dullard-enhancing lead I absorbed as a child through toys, leaded gasoline in the early 70’s and no doubt Chinese food cooked in woks from the Ming dynasty.

I came to the conclusion rather quickly that you can divide the world broadly into two categories: Based on the premise if you could actually travel through time, there would be those who would travel to the future, and those who travel to the past. Two groups. That’s it. Let me explain before I digress into a nap in the fetal position in front of the TV.

Future People – Forward Thinking

I strongly believe that those people who would travel to the future are by nature explorers, people who like uncertainty, adventure, are curious, open-minded and who want to know about wild new cool technologies, what new buildings we will design, what will the world look like, see if we conquered space travel and inhabited another plant. Or if fashion followed all those Hollywood movies that predicted we would be wearing a lot of spandex jump suits, and if we would be having sex with aliens that so many pimply geeks — bunkered away in their basements, terminally on the Internet with sticky keyboards and tied to their computers — long dreamed about.

I also think the other sort of future traveler would be the type of person who is trying to flee something dark in their past (probably something sordid in a bathroom stall at a fast food restaurant). By launching forward, in time the general public will have likely forgotten what made them so heinous to begin with. This group probably has some mass murderers on a good behavior break.

Wouldn’t it be cool to see if science has found a cure for stupidity and maybe try new mixed drinks that 23rd century bartenders have come up with? Also you would be treated like royalty just for being an ancient artifact in the future world, and you would be studied (and possibly dissected) and fêted by others so that is a plus for future travel. You could actually tell people how it really was in the olden days when times were simpler and we only had 1400 TV channels.

A negative of future travel may be, however, that humans will have physically evolved to such a point that everyone will have seven fingers on each hand and giant, powerful brains performing telepathic feats and be seven feet tall, and you would be a shrimpy, bakward, unevolved little mental reprobate who would be laughed at and bullied by society at large and on the cover of a major magazine and what would pass for social media.

Past People – Reading Backwards

After numerous scientific experiments involving shaved monkeys, a bottle or three of cough syrup, a blow torch, some cleaning solvents, some strawberries, and a case of malt liquor, I woke a few days later having had time to think about this. I am scientifically convinced that people who would desire to travel back in time are sissies and control freaks. Why? Because you already know the outcome of world events. You could bet on sporting events or political assassinations and Hollywood couple divorces with absolute certainty as a get rich quick scheme. You know what’s coming.

Think how many bets with that annoying relative or that know-it-all jerk at the office you could win with stuff like “I’ll bet you a million bucks that the dumbest human alive is elected to the office of US President by the year 2000.” You’d clean up. Bring a history book with you and spend every evening reading, and you’d be the Jeopardy champ. What fun is knowing everything ahead of time? Control-freak sissy time traveler.

And don’t give me that garbage about traveling back in time and assassinating Hitler or Osama Bin Laden. You’d be too distracted by the cheap beer and hot dogs and glossy “adult” magazines that you now have to fork over a credit card for when you’re online. I am told by a doctor. Also don’t forget the fact that taking a gun back in time would violate travel safety rules at the time port. There is a pat down before you going the time machine, you know, so dischargeable weapons are a no-no.

Sex & Money – That’s All They Ever Think About

A potential positive of travelling back in time would be that you could sleep with people who looked good a long, long time ago in photos or old movies, but are now either dead or wrinkly and on oxygen. If you chose to return to the mid to late 1960s and early 1970s, however, when there was still a lot of free love, you could sleep around and do dope and be a rebel. The lazy time travelers among you could submit patents for things you know were invented by someone else so you could submit the patent and then sue them later when they actually invent it and make some easy money.

I am sure there are those who would happily travel back in time just so they could make all kinds of racist and politically incorrect jokes that were accepted back then that you can’t say now without being pillaged in the press and social media. My guess is the folks who want to travel back in time believe “in the good ole times” largely because they can’t handle modern day complexity. Like the television remote or getting your computer printer to work.

You could go back and marry that other person you dated to see how poorly your life would have turned out anyway. Or maybe go back and redo your 9th grade chemistry exam and just barely pass it again to prove either you or the teacher were deficient in doing their jobs. Or both.

Then And Then

Let’s face it, humans have always thought it was simpler “back then” whenever “then” was. What did cavemen and cavewomen really have to figure out apart from eating, not being eaten, and pleasing the angry gods who thundered every so often? Not much. What did our relatives of ancient Africa ever have to figure out? Pretty much eating, not being eaten, leaving Africa (it was a dump then too, I heard) and running the other way when a lion or tiger or bear came looking for an appetizer.

Same goes for our only slightly more advanced relatives in China, India, Europe and elsewhere as humans began working with metals and killing each other with spears, swords, knives, and other stuff. None of them has it as complicated as I do, what with a dozen loyalty coffee cards in my wallet, and Costco tempting me all the time with special offers on crap I am told I need to be socially accepted, and, of course, my father’s iPhone that needs constant updating because he patently refuses to update ANY of his software. If he had to start reading the instruction manual, I could see his aversion. Just press the damn button and agree to the terms of use and be done with it!

I can see why you’d want to travel back in time, just to avoid being the family help desk 24/7.

What About Me?

What does this insightful rant have to do with the latest episode of the comic that was recently branded by the Oprah book club and Lady’s Home Knitting Journal, May Edition, as “sub-mental” and “proof of society’s inability to stitch together a coherent thought, let alone a sweater “? Not much, to be honest, but it does tell us to live in the present because you can’t control the past or the future. Unless you have a lot of money.

Unsure of the time of day,

Randy “Winner-Winner Chicken Dinner” McSnowden