Discordian Research Technology

Philosophers have long pondered the Great Question. They’ve pondered it, erm, ponderously and deeply, as only philosophers can, bless their hearts. But for some reason, they routinely sneer at exegeses provided by the Sage Carlin, they smile with fatheaded indulgence when implored to keep the lasagna flying and they quack learnedly about returning agency to the inanimate. Fools! The inanimate has no need for agency. By grace of Eris, it has perversity:

Flagle’s Law of the Perversity of Inanimate Objects

Any inanimate object may be expected at any time to behave in a manner that is entirely unexpected and totally unpredictable for reasons which are completely unknown or thoroughly obscure.

Anyway, it’s tempting to despair of ever banging sense in their thick yet egg-fragile heads. Let their obduracy be their punishment, wash our hands of them and wish them the very best, with the digitus impudicus raised as a token of respectful farewell. But one last effort can’t hurt. And so, a song to help them.

From the comments:

That bowl is a trumpet mouthpiece. As a smoker, I salute him, but as a trumpet player, I’ll kill him if I ever meet him.

(via)

Come to discover, after all these years, that my song is not, in fact, good enough for anyone else to hear. It’s not good enough now, and it never was.

It is universal across cultures and universal across all epochs of recorded history. It unfolds according to a standard developmental schedule, resulting in high musical capacity in all normal human adults relative to the musical capacities of closely related species: almost everyone can learn a melody, carry a tune, and appreciate musical performances by others. Read the rest of this entry »

Mr. Alexander asks that no commercial use be made of his music without his permission. He’s got pages and pages of it and it’s all good — a fine, generous collection and he’s made it available to the public. It includes the Little Bighorn Rag, with tuba! The tuba, as you may know, is the sacred instrument of the Ooompahpah Discordians.

After a bout with a terrible caffeine overdose last Saturday, I slowly regained consciousness and looked cautiously around. People surrounded me, sitting at tables and sipping beer. They had that distinctive subdued excitement that only intellectual suburban college freaks riding on a slow stream of microbrews, pot, and a light sprinkling of psilocybin can emit.

Clippergirl nudged me to stand. “It’s time, let’s go.” We followed the growing tide of flesh into an adjoining chamber where we were processed and, ominously, issued brightly colored blindfolds. Shuffling past the processing station, I found myself in yet a third chamber, larger and darker than all the rest. A murmur greeted as I realized just where I was: deep in the Green Zone in Baghdad. What manner of horrors awaited me?

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