Late night ennui, saved by Dogbert

My 3 a.m. nap was useless, I couldn't sleep. Four more hours til the next nap. I'm at my sister's place, and her fiancee has every Dilbert book ever published.

What's better than 4 hours of Dilbert in a sleep-deprived, illucid state?

4 hours of Niven, Pournelle, and Asimov.

About that "illucid" state: I appear to be lapsing into Hunter S. Thompson cadences.

They made me watch an episode of Hoarders. At one point I mumble-staccato'd "they should put out lit cigarettes on her face, the crazy cow, every time she tells them she values something over a 2. That'll teach her the errors of materialism, or at least not storing thousands of pounds of your own feces without adequate Mexican labor."

I then proceeded to elaborate a fully formed theory for why Logan's Run should be made the basis of public Health policy,. expounded on the nutritious benefits of Soylent Green, and ended with a call for the return of Zardoz man-diapers as the daily clothing of proles.

There are times when a man has to stare into the void. And then there are times when a man has to drop trou, piss into the void, and bellow "Nature abhors a vacuum, asshole!"

That time is now, and those trousers mine. The piss belongs to someone else, though. This is something that has never ceased to amaze me.

Edit: I initially texted a sentence from my phone, then decided the terseness would not adequately illuminate the deranged depths of my wee morning mind thoughts. I fleshed out the general themes, deconstructed the contextual clues in a manner reminiscent of a Tannaic scholar, parsed nuances with the skill of a politician caught mid-coitus, and generally banged away on the keyboard with little to no regard for the future.

Consider this post a warning to those so eager to hack their minds that they forget to commit and backup a non-broken version. Damn. I just envisioned the idea of putting my mind under version control, and it is AWESOME.

In entirely unrelated news, this must be what Ryan North feels like every minute. If T-Rex starts talking to me I may just blush and have the vapors, clutching my man-bosom like Scarlett O'Hara shortly before she escaped the thermonuclear devastation by hiding in a bunker full of dwarves. The magma got them, but that is only to be expected when your head engineer is a daft Southern débutante.