Humor sometimes comes at a price: the person recording this video went home paperless.
Dawn of the Dead (1978)
Directed by George Romero pic.twitter.com/91cvhlLLga— SAFDIE (@JOSH_BENNY) March 17, 2020
Feeding Time for the (Brain) Dead
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Author Archives: Chad Philip
Legitimizing the Irresponsible and Weak-Minded
Wouldn’t it be nice if governments were somehow able to pull a report of every moron, imbecile, idiot, and dunce who has been hoarding toilet paper in response to the COVID-19 coronavirus outbreak? Leaders could then distribute this information to hospitals, health services providers, and insurance companies to ensure that these people are put at the end of the line for any medical treatment they might need.
This ruse started through social media in Japan when some pranksters were able to convince people that the raw materials for surgical masks and toilet paper are the same, and that almost all of the toilet paper in Japan comes from China 
. This misinformation quickly spread from continent to continent which spurred armies of nimrods to stockpile all of the world’s toilet paper reserves. In fact, it happened so fast, that people outside of Japan didn’t even know why they were buying toilet paper: they just had a vague sense that it was somehow important.
![Two women wearing surgical masks and carrying multiple giant bags of toilet paper. [Formatted]](http://unwisdom.org/chadspace/wp-content/uploads/miscellaneous-000032-f500.jpg)
First of all, toilet paper isn’t going to do jack shit to protect someone from a virus, and this should be immediately apparent to anyone with a modicum of intelligence. The only thing toilet paper is good for is wiping ass, and for blowing one’s nose when there isn’t a handkerchief or kleenex around. If a person can be convinced that toilet paper can protect someone from an viral outbreak, what else is he or she capable of believing? That rubbing a dead fish on one’s face will remove pimples and promote clear skin? That the more USB drives that are plugged in to a computer the faster it goes? That a weekly colonic with celery juice will add years to one’s life?
Secondly, if toilet paper were somehow a secret armor that protected against the coronavirus, why would a person need hundreds upon hundreds of rolls? Pretending for a moment that you are not a complete dolt, are you really that much more important than everyone else? You get to have all of the protection for yourself and other people get to go without? Fact is, you have a selfish, meaningless, half-baked existence, and your pneumonia-riddled dead body should be cremated in a pile of flaming Charmin.
This begs the question: in a time of crisis, why should rational people have to compete for the same resources and aid as irrational people? The former group will be more responsible and considerate, and will promote stability and reason in times of confusion and chaos; the latter group, however, can only react and contribute to the panic and misinformation around them. Yet, even in the world’s most advanced democracies, both camps are treated 100% equally.
This is essentially why I tend not to vote: the input of an informed and well-reasoned individual can be immediately canceled out by an impetuous one. I can spend 15-30 minutes or more per day staying on top of politics, assessing problems objectively, and yet somehow my input has the same validity as someone who signed up to vote at the last minute at a booth in a mall outside of Old Navy. This is completely fucked!
Hopefully in the coming decades, when there is another and possibly more serious outbreak, and when computer systems across industry and government are more thoroughly interconnected, we will be able to tell who all the self-serving fear-minded shitheads are by a fancy database query. Then, as they’re waiting at the back of the line for the treatment they desperately need, they can think really hard about why they don’t matter as much as everyone else.
By Then He Would Have Made It a Part of Their Belief System
Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator 
by S.M. Stirling
![S.M. Stirling's "Infiltrator" book cover. [Formatted]](http://unwisdom.org/chadspace/wp-content/uploads/terminator-000000-f500.jpg)
TORONTO FILM FESTIVAL: THE PRESENT
Ronald Labane lay on the wide hotel bed, fully dressed and so tired he was dizzy. But every bit of him, except for his too-tired face, smiled. He was a success! A raging, by-God success and no denying it. Ziedman and Roth had shown their film and it was the hit of the film festival. He’d been invited to every bash in town, shaken the hands and held the attention of some incredibly monied people, and hopefully gotten his message out to the millions. Time would tell.
Ziedman said his agent had received nibbles from several distributors and their film had been mentioned on all of the entertainment news shows. They’d even shown him sandwiched between Ziedman and Roth, and he’d looked pretty good.
Ronald lay still and basked in the glow while the room felt like it was spinning very slooowly.
These people he’d been meeting were smart, creative, and shallow. At least shallow by his standards. It looked to him like he could become their flavor of the month if he wanted to—a sort of green guru to the stars. He almost smiled, but his face was much too tired. He’d never smiled this much in his life.
If things go the way I think they might, it’ll be worth the pain, he thought. Tomorrow morning he had an appointment with an agent, someone with pull, who’d expressed an interest in representing his book. He could see it all now, his entire future unscrolling like a movie. Oh, God! I can hardly wait.
An end to pesticides and herbicides, the outlawing of chicken and pig factories and the indescribable pollution their owners got away with causing. An end to genetic engineering of crops and food animals. The enforced use of alternate energy sources, clean sources. A simpler, healthier life for everyone. More self-reliance, less automation, and a far less consumption-mad society.
He allowed his mind to wander, imagining every home with its own vegetable garden, people canning their own food, making their own clothes. Everyone busy, involved in their communities, concentrating on the important things in life while their televisions stood idle.
Except for certain hours on certain days of the week, he thought. We’ll have educational programs on recycling and composting and the problems of the third world.
Ron shook his head at the wonder of his vision. It would take time, it would take patience, and sadly, it would take blood. There was no way around that. If people didn’t literally fight for a cause they never accomplished anything.
It will have to be a worldwide phenomenon, he thought. Coordinated to break out on the same day. Perhaps he could start with some sort of computer virus, or several of them, working in waves, breaking down communications. Stop the bureaucrats cold and you’ve made a good start.
But first, get the message out there, get the ideas into the popular mind, convince them that this was the right, the good, the only alternative to their own personal poverty and death. That was the ticket, make it personal. Then, when things began to get violent, they’d find themselves half agreeing with his guerrillas, even against their will. Because by then he would have made it a part of their belief system.
A good beginning, Ron thought, closing his eyes and drifting down into sleep. A very good beginning.
If You Starved a Rottweiler and Gave It a Receding Hairline, It Would Look Like Him On All Fours
Excerpt from the novel Infiltrator by S.M. Stirling
CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS, CONFERENCE ROOM: THE PRESENT
“I can’t help but notice that you passed over some more qualified applicants for the position of assistant, Ms. Burns.” Tricker looked at Serena over the top of a folder he had opened. “Usually,” he added wryly, “that’s not the way it’s done.”
Tricker had finally come back from whatever untraceable location he’d disappeared to—apparently for the sole purpose of calling a meeting to complain about her decisions. This time it was on her territory, though. The cool recycled air of the underground installation and the subliminal scent of concrete and feeling of weight were obscurely comforting, on a level she could barely perceive of as conscious.
They felt like home.
“Mr. Dyson is certainly qualified for the position,” she said mildly, a gentle smile playing on her lips.
This outrage is all fake, she thought, qualifications and experience are the least of Tricker’s concerns. When’s he going to admin that?
“He’s Miles Dyson’s brother. You did know that?” Tricker looked at her in only partially suppressed disgust. His cold blue eyes were wide open and full of condemnation.
Well, that answers that question. As a rule, Tricker’s type couldn’t resist getting to the point. Serena swung her chair back and forth slightly, returning his glare with a look that might almost be pity.
She shifted position to put her elbows on the conference table and lean towards him. “Jordan Dyson has worked very hard to uncover the whereabouts of the Connors and their accomplice. Long after the FBI moved the case to the bottom of the pile he has continued to search for them. He’s received several reprimands about it.” She sat back, propping her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her fist. “I happen to be of the opinion that Jordan Dyson represents no danger to the company, and I believe that his dedication will be very useful. Especially since I regard the Connors as a significant risk to this company.”
“You two discussed all that?” Tricker asked.
Colvin and Warren were silent, their heads shifting back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.
Serena waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not,” she said. “We didn’t even discuss his brother, or the bombing. For me there was no need.” Serena shrugged. “And for reasons of his own he chose not to bring it up. I knew I wanted him the minute I read his résumé, so why ask questions to which I already knew the answers?”
“Some people might consider that, under the circumstances, Dyson’s employment here represents a conflict of interest.” Tricker raised his brows.
“Of course it isn’t.” Serena actually allowed herself a very small sneer. “He’s going to be involved in the private security of a privately owned company,” she pointed out. “If anything, his personal interest is a bonus for the company.” How many times do I have to point that out before it takes?
Tricker hated to admit it, but the woman was right. And really there wasn’t anything wrong with Dyson. He was a good agent by all reports, intelligent, professional, dedicated. His superiors’ only complaints had been his insistence on working on his brother’s case. Which even in their citations they considered understandable. Their primary reason for discouraging him was to avoid risking their case by any taint of self-interest.
Tricker still had some vague, instinctive unease about Serena Burns, which prompted him to continue to question and test her. Maybe it was because she was just too perfect; beautiful, intelligent, competent, professional—and completely unreadable. Too much like himself, in fact.
Well, except for the beautiful part. Someone had once told him that if you starved a Rottweiler and gave it a receding hairline, it would look like him on all fours. A woman had told him that, in fact.
He glanced at Colvin and Warren, whose eyes were on him, their faces expectant. He let out a disgusted little, “Tssss,” and looked away. “All right,” he said after a minute. It was a full minute; he counted it out. “So far, everything else you’ve done is exactly what I would have recommended.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” Serena cooed.
Tricker froze, giving her a prolonged, unreadable look. Serena smiled back at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Only long experience kept him from blinking as he realized she was actually teasing him. Nobody teased him. “Since everything is going so well,” Tricker said at last, reaching down and pulling up the large metal case he’d brought with him. “I think it’s time we handed this over to you.”
Placing the case before him, he tapped in a code, then pressed his thumb to a sensor, opened it, and studied the contents for a moment before turning it around to allow them to see what it contained.
Colvin and Warren sat forward with gasps of amazement; Serena lifted one eyebrow. Her eyes rose to his questioningly.
Cradled in foam was the mechanical arm that had been stolen and thought destroyed in the Connors’ raid on Cyberdyne headquarters six years ago.
“Where did you find it?” Warren asked, stunned.
Colvin reached out as though to touch it.
“It’s different,” Colvin said in wonder. “I’m sure it is.”
“We thought so, too, Mr. Colvin,” Tricker said. “Certainly some of it is more damaged than the first one. But these other pieces seem to come from further up the arm. Our people theorize that this is a completely different unit.”
“How long have you had this?” Colvin demanded.
“Longer than we’d hoped to,” Tricker snapped back. “But you two wouldn’t get off your fat backsides and fix your security problems. And we sure as hell weren’t going to turn this over to you without some protection in place.”
Serena turned the case so that it faced her. She studied the ruined arm. Terminator, definitely. Cyberdyne Systems model 101. Still fairly new when she’d been sent back. Still fairly new when she’d been sent back. Which had undoubtedly been its problem. Too much to learn in the middle of a crowd of fully functioning human beings.
She looked up at Tricker. “We’ll take good care of this one.”
“The chip?” Warren said hopefully.
“Sorry,” Tricker snarled. “We got lucky. But we didn’t get fantastically lucky. You’ll have to make do with this.”
“These pieces look like relays,” Colvin said, his eyes, as they roved over the mechanism, alight with the joy of discovery. “Relays and subsidiary decision nodes, memory… We’ll learn a lot from this, damaged as it is. A distributed system. There’s processing capacity here.”
“We’ll let these guys worry about how this thing worked,” Serena said, grinning at Tricker. “I’ll make sure it’s safe.” She nodded at him, her serious. “I guarantee it.”