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Syntactico-morpho-lexico-sono palette:

There was this stranger who came into our town. He was tall; and had a dark look about him; and a special brilliance was in his eyes. When he looked at us, it was the feeling that he could see right down to the bottom. We may have been mistaken in this, but at the time no questions were asked. The questions always come later. All we cared about was the mystery we sensed in this stranger, and we waited to see what would happen.

One evening, that was different from any other, he got us all together in the big auditorium. He stood there on the huge stage. The only light was on him and we waited in the dark. Then out of his tallness came the chanting; first as a whisper we could hardly hear: “The flibberty jib bom the bippity bop; the flibberty jib bom the bippity bop.” It didn’t make any sense. We were caught up in something we didn’t understand. He had trapped us without our knowing it. Possibly it was his manner. And we came alive to him as he slowly moved us with his chant through the land of hush, into insistent savage throbbing crescendos of ecstasy. As if it were the only thing we could do, we started to chant with him, “The flibberty jib bom the bippity bop; the flibberty jib bom the bippity bop.” And he was up on the high stage laughing with all his might, saying, “Yes, yes, yes.”

But there were those among us who were jealous of his powers. Who felt they should be in the center of the stage with the light shining on them. They were against our hero and the chanting and our going to be with him every free moment. And so little by little a little later, these critics set to work to make nonsense out of the sense of what we were doing; and they succeeded. They destroyed our hero’s faith in himself. He didn’t have it any more. After a few disappointing times in the big auditorium, the light gone out of him, we all stopped going. And the man who had once seemed so tall and who now seemed so much smaller, left our town, saying, “No, no, no.”

We lived through the boredom of the time that followed, telling each other pale stories of what once was and what might have been if. We lived on histories and hopes. We did this, until the miracle we never thought would happen again happened. Another stranger came into our town, and he too was tall and dark and had eyes that could look right down into the bottom of you. And he got us all together in the big auditorium, and with the light on him (we were in the dark), he chanted, “The flibberty jib bom the bippity bop; the flibberty jib bom the bippity bop.” And we joined in and the magic was in us, and he was laughing and all his might was with him and he was shouting, “Yes, yes, yes!”

But there were those among us who were jealous, and so forth, you know, you know what they did. Little by little a little later, they put us back on the narrow path. This is the way things have been our town for as long as anyone cares to remember.

By the way, how are things in your town?

Who’s watching
Tell me, who’s watching
Who’s watching me

I’m just an average man
With an average life
I work from nine to five
Hey, hell, I pay the price
All I want is to be left alone
In my average home
But why do I always feel
Like I’m in the twilight zone

And (I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
And I have no privacy
Whooooa-oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Tell me, is it just a dream

When I come home at night
I bolt the door real tight
People call me on the phone
I’m trying to avoid
But can the people on TV see me
Or am I just paranoid

When I’m in the shower
I’m afraid to wash my hair
‘Cause I might open my eyes
And find someone standing there
People say I’m crazy
Just a little touched
But maybe showers remind me
Of Psycho too much
That’s why

(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
And I have no privacy
Whooooa, oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Who’s playin’ tricks on me

[Instrumental Interlude]

(Who’s watching me)
I don’t know anymore
Are the neighbors watching me
(Who’s watching)
Well, is the mailman watching me
(Tell me, who’s watching)
And I don’t feel safe anymore
Oh, what a mess
I wonder who’s watching me now
(Who)
The IRS

(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
And I have no privacy
Whooooa, oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Tell me, is it just a dream

(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
And I have no privacy
Whooooa, oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Who’s playin’ tricks on me
(Who’s watching me)
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Oooooooh
Whooooa-oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
So ? who can it be
(Who’s watching me)
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Whooooa-oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Who’s playing tricks on me
(Who’s watching me)
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Can I have my privacy
Whooooa-oh-oh
(I always feel like)
(Somebody’s watching me)
Who’s playing tricks on me

(To the tune of “Rawhide” by Frankie Laine, though preferably performed a bit more like the Dead Kennedys’ cover: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuEnSaZC_kA)

I hereby dedicate these lyrics to the public domain under the terms of the Unlicense (http://www.unlicense.org/)

Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,
Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,
Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,
Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,
Bitcoin!
Hah! Hah!

Keep hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,
Oh my box is thrashin’,
Keep them miners hashin’, Bitcoin.
Fifteen machines in tandem,
But it’s so bloody random,
An’ I got this achin’ in my groin.
All the things I’m missin’,
Good vittles, love, and kissin’,
Will be waitin’ for me in Des Moines

Ain’t no fool, gigajoule,
Power tool, keep ‘em cool.
Ain’t no fool, gigajoule:
Bitcoin.
Mine ‘em out, cash ‘em in,
Join a pool, keep ‘em cool,
Mine ‘em out, cash ‘em in:
Bitcoin!
Hah! Hah!

Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,
Though the market’s crashin’,
Keep them miners hashin’, Bitcoin.
Just let me solve the next block,
And I’ll go back to Bangkok.
I’ve had my fill of Des Moines.
Em dee-five’s calculatin’,
My true love will be waitin’:
Waitin’ for me with sirloin.

Ain’t no fool, gigajoule,
Power tool, keep ‘em cool.
Ain’t no fool, gigajoule:
Bitcoin.
Mine ‘em out, cash ‘em in,
Join a pool, keep ‘em cool,
Mine ‘em out, cash ‘em in:
Bitcoin!

(Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,)
(Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,)
Hah!
(Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,)
Hah!
(Hashin’, hashin’, hashin’,)
Bitcoin.
Hah!
Bitcoin!

Eric Cartman is… The Bitcoon!

UPDATE: New spiffier version courtesy of Crystal Pistol of A Saucerful of a Cook’s Secrets.

If wee Kal-El came to Earth today the way he did back in the late 1930s, he would be arrested on arrival as an illegal immigrant and disappear into an ICE detention camp for decades… assuming that the SuperToddler wasn’t just blown out of the sky by the US Air Force.

From ComicsAlliance:

The key scene takes place in “The Incident,” a short story in Action Comics #900 written by David S. Goyer with art by Miguel Sepulveda. In it, Superman consults with the President’s national security advisor, who is incensed that Superman appeared in Tehran to non-violently support the protesters demonstrating against the Iranian regime, no doubt an analogue for the recent real-life protests in the Middle East. However, since Superman is viewed as an American icon in the DC Universe as well as our own, the Iranian government has construed his actions as the will of the American President, and indeed, an act of war.

Superman replies that it was foolish to think that his actions would not reflect politically on the American government, and that he therefore plans to renounce his American citizenship at the United Nations the next day — and to continue working as a superhero from a more global than national perspective. From a “realistic” standpoint it makes sense; it would indeed be impossible for a nigh-omnipotent being ideologically aligned with America to intercede against injustice beyond American borders without creating enormous political fallout for the U.S. government.

I only just really looked at them now. The plates are each decorated with a ring of 48 symbols broken up into 16-symbol groups.

The symbol (minus the three dots to either side) is the Five-Fingered Hand of Eris.

Sorry for the picture quality here:

The Flatware of Discord

The Flatware of Discord - Close up

And now, a song:

THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE ERISTOCRACY

by Lord Omar

VERSE
Mine brain has meditated on the spinning of The Chao;
It is hovering o’er the table where the Chiefs of Staff are now
Gathered in discussion of the dropping of The Bomb;
Her Apple Corps is strong!

CHORUS
Grand (and gory) Old Discordja!
Grand (and gory) Old Discordja!
Grand (and gory) Old Discordja!
Her Apple Corps is strong!

VERSE
She was not invited to the party that they held on Limbo Peak;
So She threw a Golden Apple, ‘sted of turn’d t’other cheek!
O it cracked the Holy Punchbowl and it made the nectar leak;
Her Apple Corps is strong!

“Oh, on a flight like this maybe up to thirty-three thousand feet,” I tell Casey.

Casey rolls her My Little Pony suitcase along behind her. “How high is that?”

“Well, that’s about six miles.”

“How much is a mile?”

Casey’s five years old, and full of questions as we approach the ticket counter for her first airline flight. The line is moving along quickly. We have twenty minutes before our flight, plenty of time.

“Will I be able to look out and see the clouds?” Casey asks.

“No, I’m sorry, Casey. I told you. You can’t see anything during the flight.” I shift my purse to get a better grip on my rolling suitcase.

“Aww,” she says quietly as we step up to the counter. I hand over our identification cards. The ticket agent plugs mine into the reader and checks my face against my picture on her monitor.

“DNA scan, please, ma’am,” she says. I press my thumb to the red circle on the small scanner terminal. “Thank you. And what’s your name, little lady?” she asks my daughter.

“Casey. I’m five.”

“That’s delightful,” says the ticket agent. “DNA scan, please, miss.” I pick Casey up so she can reach the scanner. She’s used to this; she does it every day at school.

“Thank you. Okay, are you checking any bags today?”

“Just these two and my purse,” I say, lifting my suitcase to the conveyor and placing my handbag on top of it. “Come on, Casey, put your suitcase up.” She does, and the ticket agent tags each bag with a sticker. A few taps on her keyboard, and Casey watches as My Little Pony is whisked away into the bowels of the airport.

“All right,” says the ticket agent, “I’m coding your pod routings into your ID cards. Pod Lounge B, just follow the signs. And for you, Casey, here is a happy kitty sticker you can put on your pod! Have a pleasant trip!” She winks at Casey, who smiles at her sticker as we walk away.

A clock overhead shows fifteen minutes until flight time. I used to hate flying. First there was 9/11 and the fear everywhere, the machine guns at the airport. Later came the super-sensitive metal detectors, removal of shoes and belts, and just more hassle and more time spent at the security checkpoints. The new system is so much easier.

“Mommy, can we get an ice cream?” Casey asks.

“When we arrive, honey. We need to get to our pods now.” We’re just coming up on the entrance to Pod Lounge B.

“Do I have to go alone?”

“Yes, honey, but everything will be fine. I’ll be right next to you the whole time, and everything is perfectly safe. You’ll see,” I tell her, giving her a warm smile and squeezing her hand. We step into Pod Lounge B behind a big family: grandmother, mom and dad, four young children.

Flying is so much nicer now without all the security stuff. The shoe bomber and the underpants bomber forced the government to introduce some pretty tough screening procedures.

First there were the body scanners that showed naked pictures of you to the security staff. You could choose to skip them (a few people were afraid of radiation), but then you were searched by hand. I didn’t mind the scanners – anyway, it was much better than having your breasts fondled and your vulva examined with those cold blue rubber gloves.

Later the body scan became mandatory, along with the hand search. Nobody really liked that, and some people just stopped flying. A couple of airlines went bankrupt and were bailed out by the government. Then there was the vagina bomber and the full cavity searches. I always took the fast-acting tranquilizers the Bureau of Transportation Safety starting handing out for free at the entry to the security lines.

But then came Norman Greer. They said he was some kind of militia terrorist. While in flight, Norman must have taken plastic explosive and a detonator out of hollow cavities inside his metal femur implants. 523 people died that day.

“I don’t want to go in the pod!” The youngest of the family’s four children is screaming loudly. Casey looks nervous, but this doesn’t go on too long. Dad grabs a tranq dispenser off the wall, dials a dosage and applies it to the little girl’s neck. She goes limp, and mom and dad load her into a pod. Then they put their daughter’s happy puppy sticker on the pod and feed her ID card into it. A low beep, a light turns green, and they go about getting the rest of the family settled in.

“Here we are, Casey,” I say as we approach a pair of the silver pods a bit further down the line. I point to a spot on Casey’s pod, underneath the rim of the open lid. “Put your sticker on here.”

Casey peels off the happy kitty sticker and presses it to the surface of the pod, smoothing it down. “Now, hop in.”

Casey gets in the pod and lies down. “Will I dream, Mommy?” she asks.

“No, it will be like you just go to sleep and wake right up again. And Grandma will be there to give you a big hug.”

“Okay,” she says. I kiss her and close the pod lid. I push Casey’s ID card into the slot. After the green light and the beep, I can hear the gas starting to fill the inside of the pod chamber.

They say the pod freezes you to just above absolute zero. Nothing can explode when it’s so cold, so there’s no way to launch a terrorist attack as a passenger. Luggage is handled the same way. Baggage and passenger pods are all racked into the planes by robot loaders. All very efficient, and much cheaper.

I get into my pod, take a last look at the happy kitty, and close myself inside. I push my ID card into the inner slot over my head, and close my eyes as the gas starts flowing in.

* * *

Waking up from pod sleep is a little strange. It’s hard to focus properly and things sound odd for a few minutes after the lid opens. I sit up and look around until I spot Casey’s pod among the others, the happy kitty cheerfully identifying her right next to the BTS rampant eagle logo. Some other passengers are already wandering, somewhat groggily, out of the pod lounge toward baggage claim.

No sign of Grandma yet. Casey’s pod is still closed, so I walk over. Red light, two more minutes until she’s ready, the display says. Suddenly, a woman’s scream drowns out all other sound in the pod lounge. Her cries are quickly joined by the terrified shrieks of children.

It’s the family of the little girl who had to be tranquilized in the pod lounge when we were leaving. They’ve got the lid open on the girl’s pod; I can see the happy puppy sticker. The mother and kids are screaming as they look inside, the father is ashen and the grandmother stands gaping.

Casey’s pod beeps softly and the light turns from red to green. I open the lid to see her fluttering her eyes at the light. We both start at a crashing noise behind us. The screaming stops. I lift Casey out of the pod and we start walking to baggage claim to look for Grandma.

The screaming starts again. We glance back to see that the happy puppy pod has fallen off the rack and a thick, reddish goo is flowing thickly out of it, pooling around the stunned family’s feet.

Ah well. There hasn’t been a terrorist attack for three years now.

“Hey Casey! How about some ice cream?”

“Yeah! I want blueberry!”

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