Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Gentle readers, I submit, for your rigorous inspection, the idea that Story is the most powerful technology ever devised by the human species. As you have no doubt considered the numerous fictions which hold our society together, (i.e. the indomitable narrative that, circa Hobbes pushing Calvin into a mud hole to demonstrate the consequences of indulging fits of nihilistic pique writ large (i.e. extrapolated to a governing principle of conduct, or in this case, a manner of conduct sans principles), has mercilessly castigated us for weaponizing intermittent bouts of solipsism as an expedient to virtuous alternatives (i.e. making damn sure none of our coarse pubic hair is adhering to the communal soap like the severed limbs of clingy Opiliones (i.e. Grandaddy Long Legs) who have been ripped from their families by an oily, alkaline block, and ground into a mass of twitchy femurs by repeatedly traversing both the sewage and entertainment districts of simian tool users, repeatedly, without contrition.), before exiting the lavatory.), I shan’t belabor the point (unless I do so parenthetically). I merely wish to suggest to you that the most powerful review is also a Story.

Having overexposed myself to certain Netflix program centering around the travails of a chess prodigy who struggles with chemical enslavement to high grade hippopotamus barbiturates and inferior or illicit whisky (i.e. Hooch) (i.e. Queen’s Gambit), I began to see certain parallels between me and the lead character, owing, perhaps, to cognitive deficits brought on by copious ingestion of byproducts associated with yeast fermentation (i.e. ogre swill) and a recently acquired cognitive prosthesis (i.e. an idea) called Consilience (i.e. the concept that seemingly disparate domains of systematized abstraction (i.e. fields of knowledge) possess a surprising amount of overlap, and that the balkanization of academic disciplines is a product, in the main, of any one individuals limited time and bandwidth), I surmised that, due to an inordinate amount of time spent both doing calculus and calculating how best to navigate the pitfalls of the Circus Modernity, (i.e. obtaining fruitful sexual congress with women attached to large, developed, nulliparous breasts which shout, from the ramparts of the world, their remarkable fecundity (i.e. boobas), not aspirating masticated particulates of dead tissue stripped from the bones of muscular quadrupeds deep into my lungs and dying (i.e. developing venison consumption), not falling head first through a glass table encumbered with “tasteful� erotic picture books in an attempt to answer the summons of a telemarketer while wearing only a bath towel, not producing my Glock 19 and gut-shooting someone loitering in the middle of the cereal isle. Etc.), I would have certain natural advantages in a game consisting of iterated calculations. In fact, I reasoned, I could very well be the best chess player on earth based on how long I had contemplated Cellular Automata, (i.e. a collection of "colored" cells on a grid of specified shape that evolves through a number of discrete time steps according to a set of rules based on the states of neighboring cells.), and lately Wolfram’s Rule 30 (i.e. one such collection of discrete units obeying simple local rules which display aperiodic, chaotic behavior), it is no exaggeration to say that I have spent several months of my life watching black and white pixels marching across my screen while extremely effin high.

So it came to pass that I penetrated the paltry encryption of my dad’s high-level, online chess account, (i.e. correctly guessing that the password would be some combination of his name followed by the year of his birth), changed his screen name to something more suitable (i.e. 666_TotalFuckingJenicide_666), placed, as my avatar, the image of Lady Lilith (i.e. an oil painting by one Dante Gabriel Rossetti) and queued up. It wasn’t long until I had my first match and cordial dialogue issued forth from my first victim.

CryingGandalf63: nice to meet you glhf XD

666_TotalFuckingJenicide_666: Prepare to fucking die.

CryingGandalf63: oh my

It’s my move. Already my brain is on fire with past images of cellular automata devouring one another in John Conway’s Game of Life, (i.e. a cellular automaton devised by the British mathematician John Horton Conway in 1970, which, in addition to the fascinating property of having Turing completeness, (i.e. a property that describes that a programming language, a simulation or a logical system is in principle suitable to solve every computing problem), can be counted upon to produce what could only be described as belligerent, pixelated bacterial flagellum which flock together and often kick off tremendous rows without provocation.

In keeping with the spirit of this; my initial strategy unfolds.

1.e4 e5.
2.Ke2?

Unbeknownst to me, this opening constitutes what is widely understood by chess aficionados to be the ‘The Bongcloud Attack� (i.e. an unorthodox chess move that has surged in popularity after reigning world chess champion Magnus Carlsen used it in a competitive match. The name "Bongcloud" refers to cannabis use (i.e. capsizing cannabinoid receptors in the brain with a tidal bong rip which makes you stagger into the bathroom and piss flaming hot Cheetos from the noisy flap on your brain stalk), with the implication that someone would have to be under the influence of drugs in order to make such a bad move. The Bongcloud can also be seen as a taunt, with the implication that the user does not consider their opponent to be up to their level of skill, and so they balance the game out with an act of self-sabotage.

CryingGandalf63: ROFL okay ill be ur nakamura :)

666_TotalFuckingJenicide_666: PERISH!

My opponent begins to mirror my moves. I extrapolate the outcome of this memetic dance. This can only lead to the eradication of all future morphological potential in grid-space. I take a big pull from my flask and hiss between clenched mammalian dentition as the Rotgut sets off pork chop related grease fires in my gullet. I type feverishly.

666_TotalFuckingJenicide_666: Don’t you see what you’re doing, you idiot? This isn’t how the game is played! Those squares adjacent to my automata can’t be occupied by yours. Fucking CHEATER!

CryingGandalf63: Let me ask you something: Have you ever, while conducting Middle-earth LARPing exercises with your dearest comrades in the mountains behind your childhood home whilst collectively hallucinating due to massive psilocybin ingestion, envisioned your enraged father cresting the nearest hill as the front-line lieutenant of Morgoth and shouted to your elven entourage, “Lo there, he who hath slain two of the High Kings of the Ñoldor, the Lord of Balrogs; Gothmog approaches to besiege the Hidden City of Gondolin with his fiery whip, but I, Ecthelion, shall cast him into the fountain and douse his infernal flames forevermore. (?)

666_TotalFuckingJenicide_666: ???????

CryingGandalf63: And as your friends and allies, who were significantly less discombobulated due to reasonable restrictions on how much of their macronutrient profile could accommodate mushroom consumption, fled into the surrounding woods at the fury of your father’s countenance and his white knuckled grip around a pair of jumper cables, did you nervously apprehend the situation and yet could only bolster yourself by channeling the great wizard Gandalf, striking the ground with your foam staff and shouting: “I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun. Go back to the Shadow.� (?)

CryingGandalf63: But this did not stop your dad from laying you low with those jumper cables and commencing to beat your ass so severely that your shoes were never found. While all around you panicked voices receded into the old forest and you could only cry and shout: “Fly, you fools!� (?)