Yahtzee Takes On The World - Sunday , September 22 , 2002

A cross-section of a madman's mind...

So, I guess it's time for a new thought box, hmm? I guess you want another pithy little comment to make you laugh as a backup in case the article or the cartoons are particularly bad, right? Well, this month I thought I'd list a few things that have made me laugh in these serious times.

- There's a map of native American tribes above my computer monitor, and one of them is called 'Shinnecock'. Ha! Shinnecock, ladies and gentlemen!

- The time my brother accused me of feigning illness two seconds before I vomited heartily into the bathroom sink (although I didn't laugh at the time, obviously)

- The Challenger Disaster, when I was very small. Obviously nowadays I wouldn't laugh at tragedies.

- The death of the Queen Mother. Ho ho ho. I keep a photo of her corpse and look at it every time I feel a bit down. This doesn't count as a tragedy of course as the QM was mostly made of Meccano anyway.

- The dialogue between Captain Scarlet and Colonel White in last night's episode which I thought would indicate a homosexual relationhip but then went on a very bizarre tangent ("Captain Scarlet ... in case we don't get out of this alive ... I just wanted to tell you ... to get your hair cut.")

I received a spam mail the other day. The typical porno variety in which a young maiden expresses an unusual fetish in imagining being looked at by sweaty geeks all over the world. What surprised me about this spam mail was the subject line, which read 'Account Info'.

Now I don't know about you, but that really impressed me. I've seen underhand tactics in getting people to look at spam mail, but this was positively Machiavellian. We've all had mails that pretend to be from a friend that usually wildly guess your first name. But 'Account Info', that was smart. Now if they can just find a way to make people look at the actual contents of the mail without closing it immediately in disgust at having been deceived.

It has come to our attention that, according to our IP logs, you have been frequenting sexually deviant websites such as this one. Please be aware that you are liable to prosecution for gazing with slack-jawed awe at the disgusting images within, such as those showing hot girl on girl action and playful schoolgirls who love to get wet for all their friends across the world. To say nothing of the sick barnyard fetish images where horny horses give their stable lasses what for!

To receive your punishment, stand under the Washington Monument tonight at 8pm with an overnight bag and an Instamatic. Dress sexy.

I was cheerfully enjoying draining my bladder one day when it came to me that I need to update the thought box. But what with? For that I was stumped. I suppose I could have recounted how I had tried and failed to get a job at Blockbuster Video, but I doubt that would have been funny. I could say I'm thinking of volunteering for charity work just so I'm not just lounging around at home all day, but I fear that might taint my fearsome image.

So, after much soul searching, I decided to fill half the thought box with stuff about me not knowing how to update the thought box, then fill the rest with a list of my favourite euphemisms for masturbating and sexual intercourse.

Wanking, whacking off, jacking off, jerking off, shaking hands with the goddess of love, shaking great white coconuts from the veiny pink love tree, strumming the one-stringed banjo, the left-handed chamber orchestra, the twenty-one gun salute minus twenty.

Shagging, bonking, rutting, mating, humping, lovemaking, polishing the flagpole, playing pass the purple parsnip, nailing, rogering, showing Mr. Perkins to his hotel room.

So, the Queen Mother's finally turned up her toes and kicked the royal bucket, amid tears of grief from all concerned, great crowds of people eager to get their faces on TV and those soldiers with the funny big black furry hats who aren't allowed to blink. That is, the soldiers aren't allowed to blink, not the hats. Presumably the hats are free to blink whenever they like.

Well, la-de-da. Some old granny who's probably been unofficially dead for at least a decade has finally come out of the closet. "But Yahtzee, you stone-hearted anarchistic fiend, she was representative of the monarchy, this century, yea, even our entire country!" Union Jack boxer shorts are representative of our country. I don't shed a tear when someone burns a hole in them after prolonged exposure to curry.

But anyway, the head of the Royal family is finally dead and I for one am not unhappy. Judging by the smiley faces of the public filmed by the roadside during the funeral procession, and by the way they applauded as the corpse went past, I'm not the only one.

Farewell then, you scabby old bat. She's gone into the ground to be scoffed by worms and the title of our national anthem has never been more ironic. Maybe we can ditch the whole monarchy now while we're in the mood.

Astute readers will have no doubt noticed my little begging bowl at the top of the page there. Yes, money is not abundant at Chez Yahtzee, I can't seem to find a job, my parents keep bringing the subject of rent into the conversation and frankly I'm at a bit of a loss. I do love doing YTOTW and writing my articles, and if it were up to me I'd keep doing it for nothing, but a man's gotta eat, if you know what I mean.

You don't have to pay anything, of course, I'm not twisting anyone's arm, YTOTW will always remain a free webcomic. But if you like it, if I make you laugh, or if you think I'm cute, then please do dig into the sofa cushions and fling some loose change in my direction, because I don't want to end up in a situation where I have to stop my comic or anything like that. But like I said, you don't have to ... I mean, if you WANT to be a stingy sod, that's up to you ... all I'm saying is people who chip in to help the webcomics they enjoy are by and large a better class of person who will get to wear green tags when I rule the world (entitling you to discounts at Yahtzeebrand supermarkets and the ability to punch people wearing red tags without being prosecuted).

Look at it this way. If 1000 people visit my site today and each give just 10 pence then my problems are over. Of course, things will no doubt be different in practise. I know you're all FAR more generous than that.

I was browsing a porn site the other day - oh, sorry - I was searching for pictures of adorable little puppies and kittens and accidentally came across a porn site the other day and came across a link that rather stuck in my mind. "Nasty Japanese Hentai" it read."So what?" you ask. I just wondered at the time why so many porn sites seem to belittle their content with negative adjectives.

Allow me to clarify my point. Why 'nasty' Japanese Hentai? Why is it always 'TEEN SLUTS'? Why not 'Extremely nice Hentai'? 'Hentai depicting love within the bonds of marriage'? Why have I never found a website advertising 'EXTREMELY WELL-ADJUSTED TEENS IN VERY ARTFUL AND THOUGHT-PROVOKING NUDE POSES'? And am I really the only one who asks these things?

I believe there's an undiscovered niche here. Personally I'm not attracted to slutty girls at all, and I'm sure I can't be the only one. What if I were to start my own porno website which depicts only the most tasteful images, with women in empowering and meaningful poses against the backdrop of a desert or forest, penises never getting within ten feet of their mouths? People would go there and wouldn't have to be afraid of people finding out, because it'd be really artful and high-brow and everything! My traffic would go through the roof!

Spare a thought today for someone who never gets any rest, is constantly badgered by selfish gits with nothing better to do and who has the most difficult job in the world. No, I'm not talking about webmasters, I am of course referring to God.

I respect God. He does his job, I do mine. I just don't see any point in worshipping the guy. His job is finished, he's built the Earth, I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say we're all very pleased with how it turned out, but there's no need to go on thanking him for it.

Think of God as a plumber. A plumber comes to your house, fixes your leaky pipes, maybe has sex with your wife if this hypothetical scenario takes place in a porno film, and then (hopefully) you pay him and he goes. That's it. You don't come to his house next week, pay him again, and tell him once again how thankful you are. You don't bow down in front of him going "Oh great plumber, without whom we could not be enjoying hot showers today". The only difference between God and a plumber is that, where a plumber fixes pipes, God made the world. Rather vast difference, I know, but stick with me on this.

These days there's millions of people worldwide constantly badgering God, thanking him for stuff and asking for a few little miracles. And I think we've really pissed him off now. We've got earthquakes, tidal waves, disease, famine, war, all because we wouldn't leave him alone. Call me a cynic, but why do you think everyone in the Old Testament lived to 500? They hadn't pissed him off yet.

BBC 2 is currently playing host to the sporting event of the year - the international darts championship. And I don't know why it is, but whenever I stumble upon some of the coverage when channel hopping I just can't look away. It's not the most sophisticated sport in the world - ranking slightly above 'hammering nails into walls' - but I just can't stop watching it.

I love the funny voices the announcer puts on when he's reading out the scores, making him sound like a deranged party clown standing in for a maths teacher. It really seems to me like the sort of job I could do, incorporating only standing still, shouting and occasionally doing some adding up.

And I don't know about you, but there's nothing more tense in the world than the fraction of a second between a player hurling his dart and it hitting the board, especially when he's just scored two treble twenties. I also can't get enough of the soft 'thunk' sound of the dart sinking into the cork game board. I've tried to recreate it with a jam jar and some greaseproof paper but to no avail.

I think darts really has the potential to become a major worldwide spectator sport, but first I think there needs to be a few alterations. My version of darts will be played in an outdoor car park with a game board fifty feet wide, a large medieval catapult, and a herd of unwanted or suicidal cows. Think about it. It could solve the foot and mouth disease problem too.

Well, my comic hit the big first year anniversary this week, which means I am actually sad enough to keep it going every day for twelve whole months.

But there is still much work to be done! Still so many tales to be told, still so many characters to meet, still so many webcomics I haven't stolen jokes from yet. So I shall continue doing what I have been doing for so long, entertaining you useless ingrates with fresh daily humour you don't have to pay for.

But I am troubled by my traffic figures. For several months my readership climbed slowly until this August, when it started to droop rather disappointingly like a gentle flower struggling through a rainstorm. So today I'm asking for a return. I'm going to set a little assignment for all my lovely lovely readers.

Your task will be to spread the word about my comic. After all, one of the best ways to advertise is through word of mouth. So go and tell a friend about YTOTW. Think about it, if everyone who reads YTOTW tells at least one friend about it then, best case scenario, my readership could double overnight, thus helping my traffic figures and making me feel a lot better! So spam your friends and co-workers! Post URLs on your favourite messageboards! Do this as a favour to me and I'll never call you useless ingrates ever again!

If you're a new reader who was given the link by a friend, then hoorah, the scheme works.

The other day I was walking through the town centre trying to decide which building to firebomb, and I passed a tree shedding its leaves for Autumn. And there upon the ground I saw a leaf, subtle folds and tears forming purely coincidentally in it the image of a face, screaming in agony.

And I wondered, was this, as it appeared to be, a mildly diverting freak of nature, like a potato delicately shaped like a bum, or was it something more? Something sinister? Was this a message from Gaia, the Earth Goddess, saying that she wished to ally herself with me and assist me in taking over the world and forging a better society for all to live in? Was it a cry of help from the tree itself, locked in permanent agony as leaf after leaf fell from its branches like extremities from a leper? Maybe even a message sent our way from some higher race of beings with the ability to influence events and physical objects for their own ends?

I took the leaf home and studied it, placing it under a microscope and studying every inch of its fibre. I tried communicating with it in the secret language of plants, spoken in a tone too high for ordinary human ears to perceive. Nothing. Then I placed it under the Scan-O-Tron in my laboratory to see what my computer's advanced artificial intelligence thought of it. Eventually we discovered the amazing truth - it had been formed entirely by coincidence. I smiled a thin smile, then fed the leaf to my guinea pig and went off to play Deus Ex.

Does anyone else like Captain Scarlet? I do. It's always playing on the communal TV in the lounge at the Immortality Club. And I just love it. It's so darn crap it's good. I love the way all emotions have to be conveyed with a single facial expression ('worry') and how absolutely everyone who dies does so in a car crash.

One thing that worries me about Captain Scarlet is that the writers, although agreeing that he is indeed invincible, can never seem to agree on in what way he is indestructible.

Look at the title sequence. Captain Scarlet is quite clearly shot repeatedly, but the bullets bounce off him. But in the show he can be harmed, he just recovers really quickly. I put this to Scott Bakula one day in the club, and he put forward the theory that perhaps he was wearing a bulletproof vest in the title sequence. I then pointed out that the title sequence was supposed to illustrate his unkillableness. Then someone reminded us that it was just a puppet show for children, and we shouldn't read too much into it.

Then Michael Jackson once again tried to infiltrate our club, pointing to all his plastic surgery as evidence that he cannot age.

Recently you may remember that I declared myself indestructible. Well, you'll be pleased to hear that my application has gone through and that my immortality is now officially recognised. I get a little immortality license to stick on the dashboard of my car, an 'I can't die, so stop tailing me you bastard' bumper sticker, a t-shirt with the Immortality logo (a bright red target with the slogan 'shoot here') and a little leaflet telling me all sorts of interesting things about the world of the undying ones.

For instance, did you know that there are no less than 28 famous personalities who also enjoy a physical incapability to die? Here are some examples.

Patrick Stewart. Ever seen him in 'I Claudius' (or 'I Clavdivs' if we're being pedantic)? He looks exactly the same as he does now! Plus he doesn't have any grey hair. Don't tell me that's a coincidence. Secondly, Madonna. How long do you think her career can last? Lemme tell you, she'll be milking it for all it's worth when she's 90 and still at her youthful best. There is no way anyone can look the way she does for so long without supernatural help. Why do you think she keeps changing her look? To draw attention away from her lack of wrinkles!

And as for Prime Minister Tony Blair - you're fooling no-one, matey. I know ageing effect make-up when I see it.

Regulars on the Underdogs forum (which I frequent) will know that I have recently declared myself indestructible. Since I am currently alive and not suffering from any illnesses or injuries, I have decided it is probably safe to assume that I am, indeed, immortal and applied to the government for legal recognition of my unkillableness.

Let me make it absolutely clear that I have not seen the recent film 'Unbreakable', and as such could not have acquired this new exciting facet of my madness from there.

Now that it is impossible for me to die, I am in an understandably jolly mood. And in celebration of the development, I have done something for the good of mankind for once. I've been spending all my time in my room eating jam tarts and reading comics, therefore NOT blowing up any buildings and not putting the general public in any danger from my evil schemes.

Also, in about six hundred years, when everyone I've ever known is dead and I'm still at my youthful best, I shall sell myself to the British Museum and give talks to parties of school children about what life was like in the 20th century.

Recently I have been enjoying the bloodthirsty delights of the £10 budget release of Soldier of Fortune, and I have found that little is more satisfying than blowing a soldier's legs off then watching his screaming remains clutch the ragged stumps. But something about it troubles me.

At the end of each level the game is courteous enough to number exactly how many people were killed in certain gore-soaked ways. Among them Head Shots, Throat Shots and - and this is where I have trouble - Nether Region Shots.

Are you seriously trying to tell me that this game felt that portraying limbs being blown off and bullets bursting from flesh in fine red sprays was perfectly A-OK, but using any language stronger than 'nether region' would be really going too far? I mean, the game's already got an 18 certificate, why not go the whole hog?

For the benefit of Raven, I will now list all names and euphemisms for that particular area that would not have offended anyone playing the game whatsoever. Here goes. Balls, bollocks, bollards, boys, crotch, crutch, danglies, floppies, gonads, groin, hamina-haminas, jongles, longles, meat and two veg, mongles, naughty bits, nuts, orbs, piece of pork, rollocks, toggles, wife's best friend, willy wonka, woggles, zebedees, zongles.

America has been attacked by terrorists. They wiped the WTC off the map and knocked a chunk out of the Pentagon, leaving thousands dead.

I considered suspending my comic, as I'd be embarassed to continue offering comedy and light relief in the wake of such a tragedy, but the automatic update feature for this site has already been fed the comic strips for this month and some of the next, so it is out of my hands. But as I thought about it, I realised that I really wouldn't be causing any harm.

I am deeply shocked and appalled by what happened, and my condolences go out to those invoved. I do not wish to trivialize this occurence, but the human race has been through a lot. Wars, disasters, disease ... and there's always been a time when we can look back on tragedy and feel relieved that it's over. Some may even joke about it. This is not flippancy, this is simply the nature of our species. We adapt. We survive. Whatever knocks we take, we always find a way to get back on our feet. So whether it takes a few months or a few years, the dust for this terrible happenstance will settle.

In ten years time the events of Tuesday the 11th could become a movie of the week. We'll be watching documentaries on it even before then.

Y'know, I was trying to hold the world to ransom the other day but when I phoned the Justice League they just laughed and made silly noises down the line. I ended up nuking Papua New Guinea but I got to thinking - why don't they take me seriously? Then it hit me - I still consider myself a mortal man. If I'm gonna be a supervillain I'm gonna need an advantage over regular humanity. My previous attempts to acquire superpowers not having been fruitful, I decided to see if there were any existing factors about myself I could count as a superpower. Then I compiled a little list.

1. I have the extraordinary ability to TAKE EVEN THE MOST VICIOUS OF CHINESE BURNS WITHOUT CRYING OUT!

2. Tremble before the might of my amazing RESISTANCE TO EXTREME TEMPERATURES which means I can wear a BLACK TRENCHCOAT in HIGH SUMMER and NOT DIE!

3. Nations, prepare to be toppled by my power of INEXPLICABLY THINKING ABOUT A CERTAIN FILM THEN FINDING THAT IT'S BEING SHOWN ON TV THIS WEEK!

4. Be astounded by my tendency to put MORE WORDS IN CAPITAL LETTERS than is probably HEALTHY!

Hey, shut up, you guys. It's still a hell of a lot more than what Lex Luthor had.

One day I was watching Quincy. I like Quincy. But during the opening credits of the day's adventures of the canny coroner, the film skipped. And as it skipped it deleted the word 'most' from the bit in the intro where Quincy goes "You are about to enter the most fascinating sphere of police work."

In an instant I realised that some rather strange and misguided people had, for reasons best known to themselves, edited out the word 'most'. Finally I deducted what had happened - representatives from the other, equally fascinating spheres of police work had petitioned against this unfair bias towards forensic medicine!

In doing this, these other spheres had sealed their downfall. I realised that if representatives of other police work are so bored that they have to pass the time by getting on their high horses, how fascinating can the work be? And then it hit me - all the police force except forensic medicine is a scam! They don't do any work at all! They just pretend to to get funding from the government! With the simple editing out of a single word, the fools have revealed the biggest conspiracy since Watergate! No wonder the coroner has to solve all the crimes!

Sometimes my own deductive reasoning surprises even me. I wonder if Quincy needs a partner.

Indeed, gas fishing was an extremely popular pastime on the laid-back planet of Begurath 3. There are many different variations and rules, but the essence of the sport is this - the fisherman uses a hallucinogenic gas to trick fish into thinking that their nets and hooks are fish harems on 'fish get in free' night. During this point the fisherman is required to sit on the river bank and drink beer, and the winner is whoever has the best empty beer cans to fish caught ratio. The prize is traditionally a couple of days off work, which is also the consolation prize for the runners-up, the loser, the judges and everyone else for that matter.

However, when Begurath 3 got in touch with the intergalactic community, the ICBTW (Intergalactic Committee for Bureaucratic Time Wasting) decided the sport wasn't fair on the fish, so now, by law, the competitors themselves are also required to take a few breaths of the hallucinogenic gas every few minutes. This led to the favourite in the recent All-Begurath Gas Fishing Tournament, Mad Jim McBonkers, mistaking the audience for a horde of enraged spatulas. The final count was 43 dead, 65 seriously injured.

The sport is now hardly ever played now that most of the people of the Begurath system have been slaughtered, but as we have seen, Paul is not adverse to the game, and once won a second place trophy in the amateur league. The trophy is now part of the left shin of his giant robot.

OK, I really don't have anything to say this week, I just felt it was about time I updated the thought box. So to fill it up for another week or two, here's a joke I heard on the radio.

James Bond walks into a bar and sits down next to this gorgeous leggy blonde, who is instantly taken in by the Bond charisma. She notices that he's checking his watch a lot. Wishing to start a conversation, she sidles over to him and asks about his timepiece.

"It'sh a new gadget that Q'sh given me," said Bond, who was obviously Sean Connery at this stage. "It shendsh out alpha wavesh to analyshe the environment and shend the information to me."

The woman scoffs shortly, and says "Well, I think there's something wrong with your watch there, as I AM wearing knickers."

When you decide you want to rule the world, you have to start off with the obvious decisions. Where to build your base, who to employ as henchmen, what countries to nuke etc. But the little things count, too, so you might want to set a little page aside in your diary to catalogue the smaller laws and regulations you will make when you call the shots.

For instance, when my conquest of the Earth is complete, it will become illegal to dislike marmalade with shreds in. Anyone who openly admits that they don't like marmalade with shreds in will be put through a gruelling nine-month course to learn to like it. If that fails, euthanasia. Shredless marmalade will become illegal contraband, available only on the black market, and listed as a class 'A' preserve.

Secondly, I would also force Shania Twain to admit to her lesbianism. I mean, come on, look at her. "Man, I feel like a woman"? That phrase has two meanings in my book. And that song about things not impressing her. She goes through looks, brains and possessions but she still only finds people who have 'the touch' attractive. Is it not obvious?

It was the time of moth reckoning. Thanks to an anonymous tip-off I had received, I knew the moths were waiting to retake my bedroom. I could hear the sound of military training emerging from my air vent through the night. So when they finally burst out, guns blazing, I was ready for them. I kept the first few platoons at bay with a spudgun full of mothballs, but they had strength in numbers, and soon their moth tanks and moth bombers had forced me back into No Man's Land.

I was trapped entrenched on my bed, as moth battle forces lined up on my carpet, cutting off my supply routes. A moth in a green helmet spoke in a tinny voice through a megaphone made out of a cigarette paper.

"Yahtzee," called the general. "The Moth Republic demands you end your reign of terror and abdicate from the bedroom!"

"So be it!" said the general, and the battle begun. Wave upon wave of armoured moths with machine guns fell upon me. Things could have gone very bad, if my mum had not suddenly called me downstairs for dinner. Relieved, I hurriedly stamped the moth army into mush and went off for eats.

I thought, after hammering the last of the mercenary wasps into mushy paste with my rolled-up newspaper, the moth problem had come to an end. How sadly wrong I was. This morning I was enjoying the latest edition of 2000 AD when a moth landed on the grimacing face of Judge Dredd himself.

Disgusted by the sacrilege I immediately slammed the comic shut. Then disgusted at my own sacrilege, I opened it again to find ... not the pasty remains of a moth, but ... nothing! As if mocking me the moth reappeared in the air in front of me. Returning my comic to its plastic wallet I began clapping the air frantically in case the moth happened to get between my calloused palms. Eventually the darn thing zigged when it should have zagged, and I sensed the tinniest of insectile screams, and the satisfying feel of a wing being torn off between my hands. The moth plummeted onto the soft landing of my quilt, but its luck would not last long.

"I'd advise you to say your prayers, you cloth-eating scumbucket," I remarked, raising a copy of the Radio Times aloft. "But I don't know who'd be listening."

"Wait!" squeaked the injured moth. "If you spare my life, I'll give you information!"

"What sort of information could a moth give me, the mighty Yahtzee, prince among men?"

"Information on the underground moth resistance movement forming in your air vent!"

My bedroom has become moth paradise, and human hell. Wherever I turn, there's a moth. I've got moths coming out the wazoo, whatever a wazoo may be. Possible a form of kazoo. If I did play the kazoo in my bedroom, rest assured some moths would probably come out.

The problem reached its zenith yesterday when I came upstairs and found moths queueing up outside my bedroom door, being admitted by a spider. There was now a large neon sign about two feet up the door reading 'Chez Moth: Thursday is Ladies' Night'. Crushing the doorman underfoot and kicking open the door I was faced with ... a vision of Hell. A glitter ball hung from the ceiling. Moths in leisure suits strutted their stuff on my comic collection. A bluebottle in a tuxedo sold glasses of sugary water to bummed-out moths at a panelled bar that was once my keyboard. I turned and fled, and didn't return until I had been down the allotment to a shady place the insects call 'Chinatown' and hired a couple of mercenary wasps.

The moths had strength in numbers, but in the ultimate battle between moth and wasp, there can only be one winner. The surviving moths were swiftly shown the door, and I enjoyed the heady, insect-poo laden air of my bedroom once again. Trouble was, the wasps began demanding back pay and hazard bonuses. Deciding that hiring mercenary spiders would be just too surreal, I went and got my rolled-up newspaper.

Well, my 17th year on this planet is rapidly drawing to a close. From Thursday I can finally watch my favourite horror films without a nagging twinge of guilt. So on the eve of this incredibly important date, let's look over how many of my life's goals have been completed so far.

Sit through an entire episode of Baywatch without feeling superior to all mankind - no.

Acquire writing position in popular computer games website - yes, up to a point.

A little disappointing for my first real milestone year. I suppose I'll have to really knuckle down before I run this assessment again when I'm 40.

I know I have been known to be a little detached from reality and light-hearted with this thought box, but not today. Bear with me for this. We can get back to funny stuff next time I remember to update this thing.

I would like to take a moment to remember a great man. One of my greatest inspirations from an early age and undoubtedly one of the most gifted and imaginative writers this world - or any other - could have known. His tragic death at 49 will forever go onto the list of all that is unfair with this world, especially since it is reported that he was just coming out of his lengthy period of writer's block.

None of these petty words can ever do justice to what the world has lost in just one lousy day. We can only hope that he's up there now, standing on the side of the big road in the sky, sticking his spectral thumb out.

So I think I speak for all of us when I say, so long, Douglas Adams, and thanks for all the fish.

In a world where people have been known to sue each other over wearing the same tie at a society function, it's comforting that there's always a little rock of sanity to anchor yourself onto. Me.

I've been thinking recently about natural selection, or lack of same. About two thousand years ago only the strongest and the fittest survived getting through the university of life. These days, thanks to advances in medicine being made all the time, everyone survives to pollute the gene pool with their weakling chromosomes. To me this is what's stopping us from evolving cool stuff like laser eyes and telepathy. So here's what I propose. Every month the entire population of the world over the age of 15 piles into the nearest large arena or stadium, and are each issued with an electronically tagged baseball bat. Then a large number of rabid wolves, again electronically tagged, are released. Everyone must then defend themselves from the wolves. The electronic tags record who killed what wolves and how many. Whoever killed the most gets to sit out next time and pull the lever that releases the wolves. Whoever killed the least gets no baseball bat next time.

It might seem a little barbaric now, but it'd make great television, especially since the cameraman has to take part too.

Mine would be a benign dictatorship. I don't really WANT people to torture themselves to please me. I wouldn't ask for that much in the way of taxation. I'd certainly leave them enough to live by. And I'd only pass a few trifling little new laws.

For instance, I would make it illegal for anyone, in speech or print, to use the term 'British accent' except as an umbrella term. One thing that really sets off my nervous twitch is when people (usually Americans) say British when they mean English. Quick geography lesson, everyone - the term 'Britain' refers to England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, the United Kingdom. So if you mean an English accent, say so, but even then it wouldn't be clear which English accent you meant. There are hundreds of regional dialects in England alone. When foreigners refer to the English accent they usually mean posh or cockney. Get it right. There does also exist an accent that I like to call Hollywood English. It's the one English characters in American films have. It certainly sounds English but personally I have never met anyone who speaks like THAT. How odd.

If I had been around back then, that bloke who rode up and down that street in America shouting "The British are coming! The British are coming!" would have been met by a resounding cry of "Which ones?"

A lot of people SAY they want to take over the world. They laugh and joke about how they'd live in a big castle full of undead servants and men with big moustaches they twirl day in, day out. These people have not given a great deal of thought to the matter. Undead servants and castles? Pah! Stop living in the past! Embrace the glorious new technological age.

When I rule the world, I will live in a luxury penthouse apartment in London's West End, with all the mod cons, including one of those neato bathrooms with lights that turn on when you go in. And for my legion of terror? There's a lot to be said for having my very own Borg collective, I feel. Not the nasty sort of Borg, obviously. The kind of Borg with two primary subroutines: (1) Yahtzee is the almighty ruler of the world, and rightly so, and (2) everyone else isn't. But every dictatorship has a resistance. I wouldn't be one of those overlords who let the Resistance exist as they amuse me. I, like Dr. Robotnik, would hunt them down like dogs and have them all assimilated. Of course, one drawback of the Borg is that, if you're not careful, you'd end up ruling nothing but Borg. Ah well, as long as I've got my automated bathroom.

Yo, 'sup. After my recent foray into ranting, I've decided I rather like it, so I've added this neat little box to stick my thoughts in. Well, as I write this, it's Easter. A time of no real significance for me. You know, a lot of people say to me, "Yahtzee, please take your boot off my neck." After that they say "Yahtzee, have you noticed that the original messages of Easter and Christmas have drowned in a sea of choccy and presents?" Well, to these people I say "What's your point?" Given the choice of a big hunk of choccy to scoff or sitting in a draughty church singing hymns, I know which I'd rather go for. Some people may enjoy the church option, and I can't speak for them, although I can stand outside and go "Mm, choccy, yum yum, I'm so glad I've rejected the teachings of Christ." Happy Holidays, y'all.

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