Godzilla in Your Bed

Great. Now my bed is killing me. Thanks.

Turns out researchers curious about breast cancer rates being 10% higher on women's right sides discovered that our box springs may act as RF amplifiers, snagging FM and TV transmissions.
The research, carried out by Hallberg Independent Research and the Karolinska Institute, both in Sweden, attempts to correlate the fact that most people tend to sleep on their right side and that the length of a box spring mattress in America is exactly the right length to make it act as an amplifier for FM and TV waves.

"Thus, as we sleep on our coil-spring mattresses, we are in effect sleeping on an antenna that amplifies the intensity of the broadcast FM/TV radiation," writes Scientific American. "Asleep on these antennas, our bodies are exposed to the amplified electromagnetic radiation for a third of our life spans." The radiation would be the strongest almost a meter above the surface of the box spring, which would mean that the side of your body that you're not sleeping on would get hit the hardest. In most cases, that'd be your left.
This would explain why there's no right/left cancer correlation with Japanese breast cancer: they sleep on FUTONS, duh. And I foolishly sold my college concrete variant for a brobdingnagian Victorian REGENT Cal King VIBRATOWONDERBED. No wonder I wake up with that special glow in the morning.

[from Scientific American

Now, wearing my physics hat for a moment (ow, it burns), isn't it possible to negate the field that the springs generate by simply grounding the springs? Just wire them together and plug them into the central screw of any A/C outlet. Or you could also change their geometry, messing up their "tuning." I'll try a few things and get back to you. If I vibrate off this plane of existence, it's been unreal: giant smooches!


Once You've Gone Squirrel...

Weighing in at 55% ABV (that's Alcohol By Volume, Maurice), my addled Da-da brain simply cannot neurocrunch the amazing WTF levels achieved by $765-per-12oz.-bottle, dead-squirrel-koozie beer from BrewDog. Maybe it's all the squirrels Da-da has inhaled in the past. This, of course, won't stop yours truly from selling his vintage bomb shelter to purchase a marsupasixer, but only when it comes in a double breasted kinkajou sexcunx (no, it's not dirty, Mr. Succotash, it's a Latin sixer). Gotta have standards when your head is full of alien machinery, sheesh.

"Not enough O's in SMOOOOOTH to kinkajou that slaker..."

It's like my own teen-Martian patois!

Oh, wait... SQUIRREL!!



After years of heavily granted and costly research, A Man Called Da-Da -- in slack cooperation with slacker torpophysicists at AcmeVaporware -- has finally cracked the cranial cavities of small children (well, Da-da's anyway) WITHOUT USING AN AXE. Not as much fun, Da-da knows, but then there's that morals/ethics thing. Utilizing Da-da's patented Psychotronic Audio Retention Evaluation & Neuro-prepubescent Translator (PARENT) system, parents and relatives can now hear exactly what children hear WHEN A PARENT SPEAKS TO THEM. Test snippet is below; text color indicates ontological depth sounding:
[PARENT test string 4996587901a]

“…boys, STOP! I want you to STOP what you’re doing right now and LISTEN to what Da-da's saying. BRONKO! NAGURSKI! Do you hear me? Good. Nagurski, Da-da wants you to get OFF your brother this instant – YES, STOP the ATTACK! – ok, give him back the TOYS and REMOVE THE CAT FROM YOUR PANTS, or there will be NO ice cream, or any other dessert, tonight. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?! And there will be no more TV!”

[PARENT/kid cranial interpolation efficacy 4996587901b hits IN RED, representing what kids actually hear. Note the similarities in canine responses.]

“…bo-BLOP! bla blonku boga BLAH bwapur bloing blah blah ba BLAH pu bwapuh balpa. BRONKO! NAGURSKI! Blahu ba ble? GOOD. Blyplapu bugletuvbur BROTHER bis blapsnt – YES, BLAHPde ATTACK! – OK, bluh bla bopda TOYS buh BLOGGKDU CAT GLACKUR PANTS, bla bler bahl ba ICE CREAM, bo blahnybotr DESSERT, blahblah. BONK BLORK BLUBUBLAH BUH?! Bep blonklbu bu MORE TV!"
Yet another scientific junket validated.

All Your Aluminum-foil Base Are Belong to US

Well, damn. Looks like my secret, aluminum-foil-wrapped anti-govt./UFO-transmission DA-DA PEACE bunker has been discovered by the grays' hairdressers. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN THEY AREN'T STILL CONTROLLING MY BRAIN. Or the amount of coffee I drink. Is this thing on? I need some Aquanet.

And PG&E Stupid Smart Meters? Bring 'em on! All your cellular base belong to us!

Wow, how long can I milk a stupid great joke? FOREVER. A week, ok? (But if that Bloomberg guy calls me a wingnut again, I'm gonna use this joke FOR MONTHS. He's probably MY CONTROLLER. I'd like to go #2 now, #1...)



All Your BatSpiderManGuy Base Are Belong to US

This toy-box verbiage was obviously done by the same guys who did the signs for Hole Fuds


The Cratered Charm of the Kid-laden Bourgeoisie

Da-da started out like this today.

Then like this.

Then this.

Then this. (Da-da's on the right.)

Then this.

A bit of this.

And this, a lot of this.

Before finally settling on this...

...at least in theory.


Dads of the USSR: #1 in a Series

Ah, I remember when I gave my kids booze and sent them into orbit the first time -- though my kids looked human at the time. This might tie into Electric Bacon Tuesdays, but we'll have to wait and see.


Freud Takes A Tumble


This just in...

Freud apparently took a tumble early this morning. The late psychotherapist and father of the scientific method was discovered insensate, supine and half-naked, after what can only be described as, "a prolonged discourse on... well, on SOMETHING SUPERAFFENGEIL." No monkeys could be found to translate, as they were preoccupied, though two small monkey boys have been detained for questioning.

Adding SQUISH to OW (owsquish?), the body was later accidently smooshed beneath an enormous basket of American laundry.

Said the lady of the house, making a small face: "I didn't see him there." She later expressed regret, but also concern at Freud's dishabille. The psychotherapist's couch and drug paraphernalia have been retained by the authorities until next of kin can be contacted. In the meantime, a memorial was held in the master bedroom closet -- and a salmon was named -- though the two events appear to be wholly unrelated.

In a bizarre twist that wasn't actually that bizarre, the salmon -- allegedly The Salmon of Knowledge -- was named, "Sigmund."

No fish were harmed during the ordeal, though Sigmund's days are numbered since he started smoking. The unseen monkeys, on the other hand, continue to be very excited in another room, typing away at yet another Shakespearean sonnet.
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