Can we acknowledge stomach acid being fucking weird? We have pits of acid in us that sometimes comes out our very delicate throats??? Imagine an alien hits a human in the stomach hard enough to make them sick and thinks they’ve won, but they get melted by the vomit. And somewhere along the line aliens get convinced that one of a human’s defence mechanisms is spitting acid and we have to explain that no, but we have some earth native reptiles that can.
and while we’re at it, fuck this idea that ONE ACCOUNT has to belong uniquely to ONE PERSON. This is the same thing these silicon valley fucks want; their vision of the future where everyone has a unique biometric ID code implanted in their body is the ultimate extension of Netflix’s “no password sharing” policy. You want to use your friend’s car? Sorry, you can’t, you need to be an authorized user. Your mother wants to let you look something up on her OED account? Too bad! That’s only for her! The concept of perfect market efficiency gives them greedy little money bag eyes.
If I pay money to have a newspaper sent to my house, they don’t charge me extra when I show it to my dad. This password sharing thing isn’t just a Netflix problem; don’t be surprised if it shows up elsewhere in other forms. Stamp this idea out now or we’ll be stuck with it.
This is great. The thing where she shifts the ground so the othe guy gets hit and the part with her lifting the ground under the dude’s foot??? Those are straight up TOPH moves. Captured so well!
caving as an extreme sport is sooo unfathomable to me why are u as a creature of the daylight doing that. were u born without the dread in ur bones or something
come 9 year olds let us sleep in the hell fissures where time goes to suffocate
“X bodily fluid is just filtered blood!” buddy I hate to break it to you but ALL of the fluids in your body are filtered blood. Your circulatory system is how water gets around your body. It all comes out of the blood (or lymph, which is just filtered blood).
“Okay but why is it always so chemically roundabout and unnecessarily complicated” well buddy, that’s because your blood is imitation seawater. See? It’s very simple.
Buddy if anything is living in your blood (except for more parts of you) in detectable amounts then you have a serious microbial infection and need to go to the hospital.
Humans are seawater wastelands kept sterile of all but human cells, with microbial mats coating their surfaces.
Thank you that’s…very disturbing
It’s not my fault you’re human.
Ok but “It’s not my fault you’re human.” Is the best comeback ever.
You can use it against anyone except children that you biologically helped to create.
Picture this: you are a Thing That Lives In The Ocean. Some kind of small multicellular animal a long time ago, before proper circulatory systems existed. “Wow,” you think, metaphorically, “it sure is difficult to diffuse chemicals across my whole body. Kinda puts a hard limit on the size and distance of what specialised organs I can have. Good thing I have all this water around me that’s the same salinity as my cells (they have to be that way so I don’t explode or shrivel up) so I can diffuse and filter chemicals with that.”
“Wait a minute,” you say a couple of generations later, because you’re not actually a small animal but an evolutionary process personified and simplified to the point of dangerous inaccuracy for the purposes of a Tumblr post, “instead of losing all these important chemicals to the water around me, how about I put it in tubes? I can keep MY water separate from the rest of the world’s water! Anything I want to keep goes in my water! Anything I don’t, I dump back into the outside water! I’m a genius! An unthinking natural trial-and-error process that’s a GENIUS!”
“Wow,” you think a great many generations later, “being able to have such control over such high concentrations of important chemicals is so great. Look how big I’m getting. I even have a special pump to move my seawater around, and these cool filter systems to keep the chemicals in it right, and that control and chemical concentration has let me grow so many energy-intensive, highly specialised organs! Being big is so hard. I need special cells just to carry my oxygen around now, to make sure my enormous, constantly-operating body has enough of it.”
At this point you are embodying a fish, and eventually, fish start straying into water with different pressures and salinity levels. (I mean, they do that since befor ehty’er fish, but… look, I’m trying to keep things simple here.) “What the FUCK,” you think. “My inside water is at a different salinity and pressure to the outside water?? How am I supposed to deal with that? I can’t have freshwater inside my seawater tubes! My cells have a set salinity and they would explode! I need to start beefing up my regulatory and filter systems so that my inside seawater STAYS SEAWATER OF THE CORRECT SALINITY even if the outside water is different! Fortunately, adding salt to my seawater is a lot easier than removing it, and I want to be saltier than this weird outside water.” At this point you beef up your liver and urinary systems to compensate for different salinities. (Note: the majority of fish, freshwater and saltwater, have a fairly narrow band of salinities they can live in. Every fish doesn’t get to deal with every level of salinity; they are evolved to regulate within specific bands.)
You also, at some point, go out on land. This is new and weird because you have to carry all of your water inside. “It’s a good thing I turned myself into a giant bag of seawater,” you think. “If I wasn’t carrying my seawater inside, how would I transport all these important chemicals between my organs and the environment?” As you specialise to live entirely outside of the water, you realise (once again) that it’s a lot easier to add salt to water than to remove it in great quantities. Drinking seawater in large amounts becomes toxic; your body isn’t specialised for removing that amount of salt. Instead, you drink freshwater, and add salts to that. The majority of your organs are, at this point, specialised for moving your seawater around, protecting it, adding stuff to it, or taking stuff out. You have turned yourself into an intelligent bag for carrying and regulating a small amount of imitation seawater, and its salinity (and your commitment to maintaining that salinity) is based entirely on the seawater that some early animals started to build tubes around a long time ago.
And that’s what a human is!
Well, there’s another few steps, of course.
Because at some point, operating along lines of logic that worked out perfectly so far, you did decide to be a mammal.
A mammal is a machine for adapting to Circumstances. A mammal is a tremendously resilient all-terrain life-support system, with built-in heating, cooling, respiration, and incubators for reproduction. Mammals internalise everything (grudges, eggs) and furthermore are excessively, flamboyantly wet internally. Sure, everyone’s a bag of chemicals; but mammals slosh. Mammals took the concept of an internal ocean and took it in an unnecessarily splashy direction, added aftermarket mods and a climate-control system,
and just to show off, you leaned across the metaphorical gambling table and said: “my internal ocean is so good-“
“Bullshit,” said the shark, keeping it salty (ha)
“My internal ocean is so brilliantly resilient, more so than any of YOURS,” you said, holding their attention with a digit held aloft, “that for my next trick, I shall artistically recreate the ballad of evolution as a performance. I shall craft a complex chemical ballet depicting the origin of multicellular life - using some of my own material, of course-”
“Oh, ANYONE can lay an egg,” yodel the fish, and the ray adds: “ontogeny does NOT recapitulate phylogeny!!”
And you’re like, “yeah no, it’s an artistic rendition, not a literal thing. Basically I’m going to take some cells and brew them up-“
“Like an egg.”
“Like an egg. An egg but internally.”
“Yeah,” said the viviparous reptile, “yeah, like, that can work really well. I’ve always said it’s the highest test of one’s chemical know-how. It’s a lot of work. And forget about support from your family - forget about support from your PHYLUM - all you get is criticism.”
“I’m gonna do it on purpose forever,” you said. “The highest chemical, thermoregulatory, immunological, everything-logical challenge. It’s gonna be my thing.”
“I’m with you,” said a viviparous fish, stoutly. “Representation.”
You kindly don’t point out, once again, that you’re planning to do this outside the ocean, in a range of temperatures; carrying the dividing cells in a perfect 37.5• solution of saline broth in all terrains, breathing oxygen in a complicated matter, you know, bit more difficult; but you need your allies.
“It’s solid,” says the coelacanth.
“But is it metal?” says the deep-vent organism.
“Oh, it’s metal. I will feed the young,” you say, magnificently, “on an echo of the mother ocean. The first rich feast of cellular matter, the first hunt for sustenance, the first bite they sip of our liquid planet-”
Everyone waits.
“Will be a blood byproduct. My own blood byproduct.”
Everyone looks uncomfortable.
“But,” a hagfish says carefully, “don’t you outdoorsy guys still need your blood?”
You cough and explain that if you stay wet enough internally and hydrate frequently, you should be able to produce enough blood byproduct to sustain your hellish new invention until they can eat your peers.
The outrage that follows includes questions like “is this some furry shit?” And: “milk has WATER in it?”
And you won the bet. “My inner ocean is such a perfect homage to the primordial soup that I can personally cook up an entire live hairy mammal in it. And then generate excess blood byproduct from my body and give it to the small mammal until it gets big.”
That is an absolutely bonkers pitch, by the way, and everyone thought you were a showoff, even before the opposable thumbs. When the winter came, and the winter of winters, and the rain was acid and the air was poison on the tender shells of their eggs and choked the children in the shells; when the plants turned to poison, and the ocean turned against you all; when the climate changed, and the world’s children fell to shadow; your internal ocean was it that held true. A bet laid against the changing fates, a bet laid by a small beast against climate and geography and the forces of outer space, that you won. The dinosaurs fell and the pterosaurs fell and the marine reptiles dwindled, and you, furthest-child, least-looked-for, long-range-spaceship, held hope internally at 37.5 degrees. Which is another thing that humans do, sometimes.
It has been MONTHS, @elodieunderglass, and I am still mumbling “furthest-child, least-looked-for, long-range-spaceship” under my breath as a comfort phrase, and the FUCKING INDIGNITY that it came from this godforsaken post about THE HORRIBLE WETNESS OF MAMMALS!
“The horrible wetness of mammals” would make a great band name.
“hold hope, internally, at 37.5 degrees” and “Mammals internalize everything (eggs, grudges)” Now live permanently in my vocabulary
Someone will have to write one fake news report abt Cecil’s time in the sexyman polls
… And that’s why you can’t trust paperclips. What else could they be hiding but a thirst for human flesh? This has been traffic.
Now, an update on the ongoing situation at the.. One second. A blood red envelope has just been slid across my desk by some unknown force, stopping conveniently right in front of me. Let’s see what it says.
[sound of paper tearing]
uh huh. mhm. ah. oh? hmm… i see. okay.
Listeners, it appears that in order to boost ratings for the program, station management has entered me into a “sexy man competition”. This is a normal thing for your employer to do and is in no way overstepping any boundaries. It says here that my first opponent will be a “slender man”. Well. Many men can be described as slender, so to lay claim to the title of “slender man”, this man must be extremely slender indeed. I asked Carlos what the smallest thing in the universe is the other day, and he said “hm. Probably the amount of time you spend doing the dishes.” So there you have it! This slender man must have an approximate width of ten minutes per week.
The letter does not list a time or place, only the words “don’t look… or it takes you” written in pink gel pen. There’s also a drawing of a crying anime boy next to it. Hey, that’s quite good. It’s nice to see station management making use of that How to Draw Manga book I got them for national zipper day.
###
Now an update on the ongoing situation at the community roller skating rink. For those just tuning in, the rink has been occupied by angry ice skaters for the past week, yelling things like “if god had meant us to roll he would have created us in the image of a bright red Ford Fiesta Mark IV with a missing taillight and the number plate SIV384” and “we love knives. bring back knives!” When asked for comment, skating rink owner Teddy Williams stated that “knives never left”, gesturing to a gaping wound in his side before being pulled once again into the crowd of vicious ice skaters, many of whom were wielding their sharp boots like weapons. I hate to speculate, but I think that wound was probably caused by the roller derby team. Some of those youngsters need to learn to look where they’re going!
###
Another note has been passed onto my desk. This one says “always watches, no eyes”. This time, it’s written in purple. We must have run out of pink gel pens again. Wait, it looks like there’s more on the back. “We know it’s you who’s been using up all the pink gel pens to write your romantic slam poetry. We are all sick of hearing you rhyme ‘giant fist’ with ‘scientist’. Also, 'police chief Martin Brody stared into eccentric and roughened local professional shark fisherman Sam Quint’s eyes/he felt a tingling in his thighs’ does not scan. Signed…” Oh. That’s a lot of signatures. That’s… [sound of flipping through many pages] yeah. A lot of signatures. Much to think about. And while I do that thinking, let me take you now to-
[the sound of a letter being slid across wood]
Another one? Has your point not been made? Must you further ridicule my craft? I’m sorry that my purposeful subversion of the norms of the medium as a meta-commentary on the forbidden love between Quint and Martin in Jaws (1975) *didn’t scan*. I’m sorry that you wouldn’t know real art if it hit you in the- I have just been hit in the face by another letter. I think this may be a sign that I should read these.
This first one says “leave me alone”. This is exactly what I have been saying! Leave me alone! A great writer has a gentle, sensitive soul that requires solitude and peace, not unwanted criticism from certain interns (Maureen) who will remain here unnamed (Maureen Johnson). What’s the second one. Oh, this is just a page of tree drawings. Well, if we’re doing the whole “constructive criticism” thing, I think these drawings are highly unrealistic. The trees aren’t even screaming! They don’t even have thousands of unblinking, bloodshot eyes. To forget such important details is sheer laziness. Speaking of sheer laziness, another four letters just got dropped onto my desk, and I would rather be eating my lunch than reading them right now. Let’s check in on the weather.
There is a stranger outside my window. He is tall and neatly dressed. His face is as smooth and white as the inside of a shell, if the shell you are looking inside of is both smooth and white. If it isn’t, then his face is the opposite of that shell. Actually, picture an egg. His face is like the egg of a blue-throated hummingbird. One of you is imagining a chicken egg. Stop that.
He has been waiting politely for me to finish my lunch. I have now finished my lunch, and he is now waiting far less politely. I think he wants me to read the rest of the letters. Suddenly, I do not want to read the rest of the letters. I do not want to read the rest of the letters! He is being very insistent. I am trying not to look at him. All this talk of letters has reminded me that we haven’t had “Hey there, Cecil” in a while, so why don’t we…
[banging on glass]
Okay. Okay. I am a reporter. I must report. I am opening the fifth letter. I have unsealed the envelope. I am pulling out the paper. I hold the paper in my hands. I am looking very intently at the potted geranium on the other side of my office. It has grown seven feet since last week, but still has not reached its advertised height of three miles, fifteen inches. I wonder if I have been over-watering it. I am looking at the ceiling. It is not there. It has not been there since last month, when it was destroyed by a giant flying- well, you remember. You listen every day, don’t you? I won’t insult your intelligence by providing a recap. I am looking at the photos on my desk. I am looking at my empty sandwich wrapper and my draw full of equally empty pink gel pens. I am looking anywhere but the paper.
I am looking at the man on the other side of the glass, who is now- I’ll read it. I’ll read it. Please put that down.
… Hey, this isn’t too bad. It just says “help me”, written in a shaky, unfamiliar hand, pressed so deeply into the paper that the page is ripped in places. This time it’s red! How adorable. You know, in the language of color theory, red represents warmth, energy and enthusiasm.
Let’s take a look at the rest while I’m “in the zone”. This one says “can’t run”… That’s true, I’m on the clock right now. This is not the time for recreational activities like jogging. This one is just the word “no”, written nine times around a picture of a shadowy figure with a face like a… Well. With a face that’s not like a face. Hey, hang on! I am holding up the picture to compare it to our visitor. He is standing still very nicely while I look back and forth between him and the paper. You’ve been very good today, so please see the front desk for a lollipop on your way out. I think this might be… Actually no, never mind. The drawing cannot be of him, it’s far too skinny. No person could possibly be this thin, as thin as the wall of an airplane becomes when it stands as the only barrier between you and the arms of a welcoming earth. She does not understand why you keep leaving. She will do anything to make you stay. The man in this picture is as thin as about ten minutes per week. I never did end up hearing from that guy.
The visitor has left. I suppose he went to collect his lollipop. The eighth and final letter sits here on my desk. It seems lighter than it did a minute ago - or maybe my arms have just become stronger after several minutes of opening envelopes. And they say radio isn’t a physically demanding job! I would like to see some of you gym types try to lift these. They must each weigh as much as one ounce.
Well, no use delaying the inevitable. That’s what I always say!
Oh, it’s just from station management again. They’re saying I won the first round of the “sexy man” competition. I guess “slender man” was so intimidated by my literary accomplishments and newly sculpted musculature that he gave up. “Slender man”, wherever you are, don’t lose faith in yourself. Sure, we can’t all be bad boy radio hosts with a secret heart of gold, but there is somebody out there who will love you for who you are. Maybe try to do the dishes more often though, okay?
Stay tuned next for a middle-aged man trying to figure out who Herobrine is. My best guess is some kind of pickle-themed vigilante.
