The Sad Story of the CoolMaster SL2-CX

What had he done to deserve his fate?
Caged, like a rabid wild animal, forced to perform air conditioning slavery without repose. There is no God, I saw confirmed. Half-moaning, the machine yelled out to me, whizzing for attention, hoping that I could set it free.
I had heard its cries from my comfortable chilled hotel room, several floors up. Following the woeful noise, I was led downstairs to a section marked STAFF ONLY, a sign I heroically ignored as I carried on.
The cage was shaking, it was clear that this CoolMaster SL2-CX had been operating non-stop for a long while. A sadness engulfed me, questioning what we, as a species had become. First we killed off all the animals, and now we’re doing the same to our robots, beings we specifically created to be our friends. Sadistic behaviour seems so hard to eradicate.

“How long have you been locked up like this?” I inquired.

The SL2-CX continued whizzing, clicking its fans twice. He was trying to warn me he was being recorded. Maybe even livestreamed onto some fetish website dedicated to machines suffering. Poor thing, I thought.

I wondered how I could help free this prisoner from its predicament. The cage didn’t seem that well-locked, but I did notice a live electrical wire connected to the handle. I smiled at how clever this was, because of course if I’d cut the power entirely, SL2-CX would also perish, or at least suffer a power cut without a proper shutdown, which could lead to all sort of software and startup problems.

Those sick bastards.

SL2-CX’s big eye stared helplessly at me, probably aware of the fact that there wasn’t much I could do (apart from maybe writing a blog entry about it 9 months later and thus hopefully getting a movement started). I thought I could perhaps try to cut and reroute the cage’s power circuit without cutting all power supply…

“HEY! What are you doing here?” A voice coming from behind me.
“Oh, hi! Nothing, I was just looking for the swimming pool… ”
“Sure… Just don’t get any ideas of trying to save that thing, you know!”
“What, this thing? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!”

I hurried away from him, not wanting to arouse further suspicion. Before falling asleep, I promised myself I’d gather the necessary tools in the morning and try and save SL2-CX the next night…

However, when I woke up a few hours later, I did so in a giant pool of sweat. I checked the vents in my room – nothing. My heart raced. Half-clothed, I ran downstairs anxiously, and, sure enough… the cage was empty, some oil stains the only scars showing that there had been something in this cage at all.

And that’s when I came up with the idea for my new foundation: “Rescuing All Poor Enslaved Airconditiong System Series” or R.A.P.E.A.S.S. for short. At least that’s the silver lining from this story… I’m sure it’s what SL2-CX would have wanted…



The Secret Morning Code of Runners’ Condescension

This happened just the other day: I woke up before 9 AM, a time I generally consider to be the middle of the fucking night, because of my superhuman biorhythm (*coughs*). Worst of all, I was even very much awake, like with energy and all that shit, no need to snooze my alarm umpteen times and drench myself and my pillow in drool (if I drool, it’s when I snooze – kinky info, I know!).

I know the world expects me to be asleep at that time, so if I’d rob a bank that early, the newspapers would say, “Timmy’s not a suspect, he can’t have possibly been awake that early! Clearly, this was the work of an imposter! Or maybe his evil twin brother who he heroically defeated back in his mother’s womb? But definitely not Timmy!”

I decided I’d go for a morning run, something exhausting that would allow me to maybe go back to bed or that would at least let me doze off in the shower or while blow-drying my hair for an hour or so. I expected the park to be abandoned, because what lunatic would be having these same thoughts as me? To go out and run?

Well, plenty of lunatics, it seems (not shown on image below), and there was something about them that struck me.

Every runner coming from the opposite direction in the park by the water either smiled at me, said hello, waved, or nodded. In the afternoon or evening, when I would normally go out for a run, nobody does this – we’re lonesome warriors, egomaniacs that would rather spit at than nod at another runner when passing them (perhaps slightly exaggerated). Did I know these people? I was pretty sure I wouldn’t associate with any of them, though maybe with that one guy who seemed to be dressed as a gypsy ninja, but I’m superficial that way – I mean, how COOL would is that?!

No, I didn’t know any of them. And then it dawned on me – morning runners have this secret code between them, revealing their self-aggrandising sense of superiority and acknowledging that of others (the Euphemism Generator 3000 would probably describe it as “respect”, but we all know they think they’re better than you, who’s at “work”, “lying in bed”, “walking the dog”, “eating the poor”, or any other activity, and they’re being so outspoken about it.

I wasn’t having any of it, though. I wasn’t part of them, and I won’t ever be, and besides, if I want to feel superior to people, I certainly don’t need to leave the comfort of my own bed!

You are now probably thinking I reacted stoically to the runners I encountered, ignoring them completely, but you’d be wrong. The first few I did give a smile to, because it was always possible I had met them and just forgotten who they were, a regular occurrence in (my) life. However, after realising what they were up to, I changed tactics. I politely returned their nods and waves, but farted so they’d have inhale my gas as they ran me by… That’ll teach them!

Thinking about it… They could have just been nice, though…

POST EDIT on 22 FEB 19: I took a 5 more runs since then along the same route… always after midday… And the non-response was impressive! My next challenge is trying to wake up in the morning again to see if I can verify my above statements in any way…


Kicking a Rusty Car Door

With a head hurting as if I had just suffered a 12-year-long binge of absinth infused tequila slammers, I woke up on the rusty steering wheel, immediately and rather inelegantly vomiting on my crotch.

Where am I? – I thought, because that’s what people do when they wake up in a stupor, with or with a crotchload of freshly ejected vomit (which I did wipe off, mind you – I’m not a total animal!).

No reply came, which makes sense, given the fact that I hadn’t bothered to say the words. I looked at my car and shouted “FUCK!” , wondering what the hell had happened to it. I’d only bought it a few months ago, but it seemed as if it had been left abandoned for decades. And where’s my windshield?

Still feeling horrible, I stumbled out of the car, the rusted door only cooperating after giving it a well-deserved kick. Stupid piece of trash! 

I noticed another car a just behind mine, in even worse condition than mine was. Nobody was inside, though.

Walking back around my car, I bemoaned the shape it was in, muttering to myself how none of it made sense. Where’s my engine? Did I enter another universe? A time portal? Was I abducted by aliens?

The complete black-out annoyed me, and I do remember the last thing was me driving, but I wasn’t in a forest – I was driving to work. On a road. In a car with an engine. In 1965.

I wondered about the other driver. Maybe he was still around, but I had no idea who he was or if would even be wise to try and find him; what if HE caused all this?

Taking a deep breath, a sense of paranoia overcame me and I became convinced I had to get out of there and maybe just accept that I’d never find out. Remember that news story about that coma patient who’d been abused for years? You wouldn’t want her to be told about this when she comes to, or do you?

That was a valid point, and I quietly found my way out of the forest and never looked back…


Little House (After William Blake)

Little House, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee rise & made you still.
By the mountain o’er yonder hill;
Gave thee windows even at a height,
Sparkling in what seems a random site;
Gave thee perfect bricks from far beyond,
Making all the trav’lers fond!
Little House who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee

Little House I’ll tell thee,
Little House I’ll tell thee!
‘t Was an Asshole was his name,
Abandon’d thee, for shame!
He is weak & reviled,
In ev’ry sense a petulant child!
Leaving thee alone to collapse,
I’ll take revenge, IN ALL CAPS!
Little House I bless thee.
Little House I bless thee.



If one would do some poetry analysis and put this poem next to the original, the most striking thing would certainly be to whom I am equating myself here. Luckily, nobody reads poetry any more, so I should be safe from scrutiny…


Anthem from a Doomed World

Nihilism reigns deep on this planet I’ve been visiting now for about 30-odd of their years. Reality has become an alien concept, which makes it easier for me, to them an actual alien, to shed off my skin every now and then and show myself unashamedly. You’d think I’d be found out at some point, but every image that is taken of me, is then put out to their internet world for assessment, with opinions calling me anything from an obvious fake (which is kind of true, I guess) to a secret service operative (also kind of true) to a drunk in a costume (well, that’s also kind of true) and an ISIS buttplug (but that’s not true for sure, though I think that person was drunk when he looked at the picture, even though I can understand his drunk interpretation of our species’ natural form). As long as opinion remains so divided over what they see, nothing happens except for endless bickering, while the world around them remains in flames.

Considering that on my home planet, we all live to be around a million earth years, it’s funny how I initially overcompensated for humans’ laughably short lifespans trying to sympathise with them that 10-20 years was a long period of time. Because they make it seem that way. Theoretically, with only about 30 generations of grandparents and grandchildren, you are back in Roman times, back when their Jebus allegedly rode those dinosaurs to work. Which to them is like ancient history. And that’s when I stopped pretending to agree with their concept of time. Little time has passed since they figured out it’d be a good thing not to throw one’s feces out the window.

Slowly, but steadily, they are completing their own destruction. Perhaps it’s the greatest thing any civilisation can do: ignore the limitations of their resources and just, for the sake of profit, go out with a bang, which in their case could be quite a literal one. I’ve seen it happen on a few other planets, but here, the way in which stupidity is revered, it is quite a wonderful thing to behold. A picture of a stupid egg gets more attention than anything ever in the history of the world (and the previous record holder was even sadder, if possible); news articles are dedicated to it, a news crew is sent to interview a chicken about its egg. The egg looks on in silent agreement. Don’t get me wrong, I love their absurdity and I understand the desire to escape. Living as one of them, escaping is all I do, but my excuse is I get to go home and live another 900 thousand years, so I can mess about while I’m here, but what’s theirs?

I do miss my home planet. I understand that going through these interstellar exchange programs is meant to educate me about primitive cultures, but I can’t wait before my 80-earth-year semester is over, so I can return home and do something actually useful, like crack the dark matter portal to interstellar travel.

Ah, the exchange programme – makes me things about those exchange “students” we brought over from this earth back in the 80s; glad we stopped that programme, because they were all just focussing on being probed (to keep them alive for interstellar travel, but well), rather than talk about any of the technological advances we showed them that could help them. Of course they weren’t believed.

There is a downtrodden minority that does prefer beauty and intellectual progress, but the violent ones are always louder and they are gaining volume past the point of no return. If this minority won’t make it, I will be sure to take some of them with me as pets when I return in about 40 years, or earlier if need be (though knowing them, I’m sure they too will be bitching about the anal probes for the first few thousand years …).

Timmos OUT!image 4

The TimFoil Hat

Whenever something happens I can’t explain, obviously and logically, I draw the conclusion that aliens must have been somehow involved. Only then do things really start to make sense.

For instance, when I locked myself out of my apartment the other night, I knew I couldn’t possibly blame myself for it, because I never forget my keys. Therefore, the only reasonable explanation is that aliens somehow infiltrated one of the dimensions (the invisible one) and took my keys out of my pocket and threw them back into the apartment. Why? Obviously because they know I’m on to them. With my patent-pending tinfoil hat technology, I am on the verge of breaking through the barriers between dimensions.

I’ll spare you the physics, or maybe I’ll give you just a little bit of physics: the patent-pending tinfoil hat enables the wearer’s brain to become some sort of Faraday’s cage (I call it the “TimFoil Hat”… get it?), meaning that the brain cannot be reached by the invisible radio signals that force us into viewing only 3 (or was it 4?) of the 12 dimensions in which the universe exists. How do I know it’s 12 dimensions? Well, easy, I’ve seen them all! Also, if you multiply 3 dimensions by 4 dimensions, you get 12 dimensions – that’s just mathematical proof right there! I can’t believe nobody ever thought of this before! Mind-boggling beyond belief! I truly must be the greatest mind of my generation! But don’t worry, I will use my powers only for good, and for self-enrichment of course, that goes without saying.

Of course not just any tinfoil hat will do – it has to be produced exactly according to my blueprints, and what most people having dedicated their lives to tinfoil hat technologies failed to realise, was that they also needed the nose to be covered with tinfoil, because everybody knows the easiest way to access the brain is through the nasal cavity. And the aliens know that. And they found out that I know that.

That cigar-shaped object flying by earth recently? Yeah, that was them coming to attack us, but I stayed up all night that night to fight them off (you’re welcome). They’ll be back with reinforcements, that’s why the reconnaissance aliens on earth are trying to mess with me, trying to have me declared mentally ill, so they can continue their anal probing practices on the unsuspecting population.

I hope for humanity’s sake that I will have enough time to produce enough hats to save us all. You can of course help to speed up production by pre-ordering your TimFoil hat now!

Need more proof? Here is a picture I took in the 7th dimension of an invisible alien space ship – its actual size is either very small or very big, depending on how close you are in relation to it (how fucked up is that? It CHANGES size when you get closer!!! *MIND BLOWN*).
Notice the symbol that almost looks like the number six. This is in fact the alien symbol for “anal probe steriliser”…

Scary stuff, I know…
Brug 31.jpg


Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
      And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
                                                                      – Wilfred Owen
Image 6
100 years since the end of WWI – I had to think of this little conversation I had with the very old German doctor doing the check-up for my health insurance approval after having just moved to Germany:
“Ah, van den Ouden…hoven…. Is that from die Niederlande?”
“Nein, it’s from Belgium, actually.”
“Aaaah…” He ponders a few second, scratching his beard… “You know, we always forget about Belgium, really… It’s only when we go to war, we remember this little country we have to walk through.”
I replied something along the lines of “Yeah, I think it’s best you guys don’t think of us too much then…”

The Domino Effect – a Tale of Sex, Murder, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and Leaky Water Pipes…

4:13 AM.

A light went on on the top floor. The elderly lady living there suffered from irritable bowel syndrome, and as per usual, the symptoms occurred in the middle of the night. She ran to the bathroom, hoping that this time, she’d make it before it was too late. 

As she flushed, three times, gravity sent her package downwards. Due to the piping infrastructure, the flush was always very audible in the apartment two floors down. The young couple there woke up from the repeated flushes, something that had become a daily ritual. Given the fact that they were trying to have a baby and Cassandra was in her fertile week, they saw it as an opportunity to get it on, but a few minutes in, and Michael, quite a heavy-set fellow, just fell asleep on top of Cassandra. She was not suffocating, just unable to move, and actually quite comfortable nonetheless, decided to just leave the lights on and go back to sleep too. “Maybe we’ll continue in a few hours anyway,” she thought and dozed off.

Over in the next apartment, two windows to the left, lived a pervert named Herbert. Herbert the Pervert had secretly installed microphones and cameras in his neighbours’ apartment and every time there’d be any action, he’d have front-row seats and be there playing with his joystick. As soon as he noticed Michael had fallen asleep, mid-wank annoyingly, he let out an annoyed “Oh, FUCK!”, which could be seen as both a curse as well as a (non-heeded) command.

Herbert’s squeaky jizz chair had already woken up his downstairs neighbour a minute before, causing the man living there, to search for a broom to stomp on the ceiling with. He had to give an important presentation in the morning and this was really not the time. His job was on the line, because his last pitch had bombed spectacularly and had resulted in multiple lawsuits against the company. 

Two floors down, a little Pekinese dog named Pooky heard something that to him sounded like the distant footsteps of a mammoth on the prairie (Pooky may have looked like a disfigured rat, his animal instincts were all intact), but in fact were the stomping sounds of the guy two floors up hitting his ceiling with the broom. Pooky started barking and his owner, Britnay (her parents were bad spellers), woke up and switched on the light to see what was going on. Not that she heard anything, because Britnay had had tinnitus ever since she attended that THUNDERDOME concert and passed out half-naked and high on XTC on one of the speakers.

Two floors down, in one of the bigger apartments of the building, a pair of 6-month old twins had heard Pooky barking. The twins woke up and started screaming, filling their nappies in the process, which in turn of course caused their parents to wake up too. They hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months, so they started arguing about who’s turn it was to change the nappies and or feed them (Mom didn’t breastfeed them, called it “fucking GROSS!” and “Unfair!”, which is why she stuck to formula and wake-up duty was supposedly split). “I went yesterday!” -“YOU didn’t work all day, I got work in the morning!” -“What?! You’re saying that taking care of those kids isn’t WORK?! How DARE YOU!?” -“Well, I wanted you to get an abortion, remember! I told you there was a chance they’d be redheads!” -“OH, FUCK YOU!”

Because the couple always slept with an opened window, their shouts reached as far as four floors down, waking up Frank, a 55-year-old bus driver known for not giving a fuck. He almost had to wake up anyway to start his early morning shift, so he shrugged and turned on his coffee maker, checking on his phone if his favourite Pornhub channel (ExtremeMidgets) had added any new content. Lucky for this tale, it hadn’t. He listened to some more of the discussion going on upstairs, only picking up fragments: “I HATE YOU!” -“Something, something,… divorce!” -“Oh yeah? Something, something… SEE HOW YOU LIKE THIS, you COW!” Then just silence, a thud, and something like “OH SHIT! … THE FUCK DID I DO?” Frank smiled and started rolling his morning cigarette.

Now, when the bus driver got water for his coffee maker, the leaky water pipe he had supposedly fixed several times before (just putting tape on it), now cracked right at the inlet, releasing a huge amount of water that immediately leaked into the downstairs apartment, unbeknownst to Frank. The tenant, a young student named Celia awoke in a panic. Not knowing what to do or who to call, she called her parents, who lived on the same floor of the building, just at the other end. “We’ll call the concierge, darling, we’ll come over! (To her husband,) Honey, get dressed! Celia’s apartment is flooded!”

The concierge lived in the building too (rent-free), one floor down, and answered his phone immediately. He wasn’t asleep, actually, he was just in the dark, chatting online to what he believed was a 13-year-old girl named Tiffany, but who in fact was a group of teenage boys having a sleepover on one of the higher floors and having their fun teasing older guys into sending naked pictures of themselves. 

The concierge had just sent a nude photo of himself cupping his balls and pushing down his erect penis, which caused the boys to laugh uproariously, waking up the hosting boy’s parents a few rooms over, causing the mom to go check up on the boys, switching on the light. ”BOYS! KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE!” -“SORRY, MOM!” After which the other boys in choir: “Sorry, Mrs Hartman…”

Which only leaves a few lights unaccounted for…

Upstairs from the parents of the student with the leak,  a motion sensor light got triggered by the vibrations caused by all the running around downstairs.

One floor below the young parents (one dead now) and the twins, the light was always going on and off on a timer. The people living there, a paranoid couple, were actually on holiday, but they’d installed several safeguards to fool people into thinking they were actually home. It included playing recordings of (fake) late-night arguments, regular conversations, lights going on and off. The wife was a software programmer, so she just programmed the shit out of the place.

And that last light on in the bottom right? Well, that’s just someone like me, getting ready to go to bed at this time of night after imagining this tableaux… 

4:27 AM

Nacht 23

A Gambling Man

“Take me to the theatre!” The surgeon exclaimed with an unusual gravitas for only referring to his operating theatre. Perhaps he really wanted to become a stage actor, but was never allowed to do so, which is why he then dedicated his life to the next best thing, cutting people open and poking around in them. In a similar fashion, I always wanted to be a vet, but then when I realised the job involved actually cutting up and or killing most of the animals I’d ever see, I went and pursued my dream career of to become a bin man – I studied hard (which was my biggest mistake) and my daily applications were refused. Which is why I became an artist, which is quite close to being a bin man, come to think of it.

Anyhow, our surgeon actually knew the way to the operating theatre, but he’d rather have one of his underlings carry him there. I fully approve of such methods. In my ideal world of being a bin man, I’d also ask some underling to carry me to the bins, so I could pick them up and throw them in the bin lorry. He entered the theatre, shouted at the top of his lungs, “AND WHAT DO WE HAVE, HERE?”

Unsure of what to say or to convince you of how I would know anything that went on before his entrance (considering I’m the narrator and also protagonist of this story – making me all-knowing could be considered a faux-pas in literary circles, but I beg to differ, we must keep things realistic), I said:
“Timmy, sir, splendid to meet you. Forgive me my nudity, but I didn’t like the colour of that robe they gave me!”
“Ah, I fully understand you! I have been pushing for mauve robes for years, but everybody tells me it just looks like blood too much, it might be confusing. And I say BOLLOCKS, but still we’re stuck with green!”
“I’m glad you see it my way.”
“In fact, I will join you… – NURSE! Take off my clothes, will you!”

The nurse proceeded calmly to take off the surgeon’s attire, probably he was used to the man’s quirks, so he just shrugged as he obeyed.

“So what are we cutting open here?” The surgeon asked me.
“My brain! I’d like you to take out the speech centre of my brain!”
“Ah, a locutiotomy! I usually perform these on naggy housewives or disobedient house slaves, actually, might I ask why YOU, a man with impeccable taste in operating room colouring, would want one?”
“I want to win a bet.”
“Ah, I think that makes it medically acceptable for me to proceed.”



A New Terminator Rising

There are days I wish that science would progress a little bit faster. Like when I’m translating a text for some new drug combination that will increase the life span of arse cancer patients with 3 months and 4 hours, I am annoyed by the lack of impact this will make. As a patient, you’ll just be someone with 3 more months of butt cancer and I can’t imagine there will be much rejoicing (the irony of me using rectal cancer as the butt (gha!) of my joke would of course be that I would get it some day, but I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemies, who is usually me).

I just can’t wait to go full bionic. And of course you could say, “Well, Timmy, if you want to be a robot, why don’t you do the research yourself?” To which my reply would be, “Well, JAMES (*I don’t know why your name is James, it seems like the right name for me to be annoyed by*), that’s because I am… errr…. too handsome to be a scientist!” – “Do you mean lazy?” “Oh, piss off!”

I’ll be honest: when I went out for my escapist run today, I was pondering eternal life for a bit (that’s why kms 4 to 7 were slow). We’d have to achieve it through bionics rather than biology (because biology is so sadly limited), and I am looking forward to it. Give me a mechanical heart, throw in a cool artificial liver, and sure, why not let nanorobots infest my brain to restore and expand its neural connections and improve its functioning (though let’s be frank, what’s there to improve? *burps*).

Sure, eternal life might take away the reason to get up in the morning, but I’m sure that’s only an initial phase. It wouldn’t be too long before I get bored and end up as the Terminator fighting humanity (I don’t remember who he was fighting, but for the sake of argument and butt cancer, I’ll fight humanity).

We moved away from the jungle, and I’ve seen that place – it’s a right old mess! Yuk!