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Tales from seat 15A

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 19:02:12 +0100

So one of the in-flight magazines, I forget which one, had a regular feature called "Tales from seat x" (or some such shit), which would be a short story written by someone else each issue that would take place on a plane, and the entire plot would happen during the flight. The only one I remember was about a guy who befriends a woman, she eventually makes a pass at him, and then he reveals that he is actually the brother of her fiancé and this was all a trick to test her faithfulness THE END.

These are the sorts of things you see and you think to yourself "I could write that." And so I did, and then sent the story to every single in-flight magazine I could think of, since I don't even remember where I saw it.

I have now given them about 4 months to respond, and since they have not, I believe it is safe to assume that this can now be posted, since they refuse to recognize my genius. Or they don't enjoy pedophilia jokes. WHATEVER.

TALES FROM SEAT 15A

I took another long sip from my Jack and Jameson, and snuck a surreptitious look at the gentleman who had just sat down on my left.

"Looks like a terrorist," I mused. In fact, I was beginning to grow more and more sure of his terrorist nature, so I began to reach up for my chick-call button when I noticed my seat designation placard. Seat 15A, it read. "Holy shit," I thought - "this is that seat from those stories in the in-flight magazine!" I realized I had better make a note of my thoughts, so I could write about it later. I took out my trusty notepad and noticed that the front page was already filled with observations - Terrorist, I read, written over and over again on the first page, so I flipped through a few more pages...hmm...thirty pages of terrorist written in increasingly less legible handwriting.... need some free space...here was some.

I took out my pen and gripped it tightly in my sweaty fist, Terrorist, I scrawled in my meaningful, yet nearly unintelligible hieroglyphic-language.

"Hey Abdul," I barked at the man, "what's yer name?", glaring at him through my left eye (the alcohol had long since forced me to close my right, which was fine, since binocular vision is for pussies). The man, startled, looked over at me.

"Excuse me? I thought I had introduced myself before I left to use the restroom. My name is Luke - from Sacramento, remember?" The godless heathen put his right hand forward, with all of his fingers pointing at me sideways - some sort of Islamo-bombing gesture of solidarity, no doubt.

"Now you listen to me, Iron Sheik, I don't..." WHAT THE HELL - klaxons of pain were sounding from my knees, which felt as if they had just been tested for reflexivity by Paul Bunyan.

"WHAT THE HELL", I shouted into the back of the seat that was now two inches from my lips. I leaned back and kicked at it for a few seconds, before wrapping my neck around the right side and beginning my diatribe "Listen you cocksucker," I began..which is when I noticed that there was no one there. Then I heard a whimpering sound from beneath my chin, and looked down to see a mini-terrorist, complete with Go-GURT®-stained Spongebob Squarepants® t-shirt.

The seat he was in began to shake, along with the whole row, as a large man two seats over was struggling against his seat restraints in apoplectic fury. "YOU SON OF A BITCH! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY SON!", he screamed, causing me to lower my right fist (Plan B®) to my side.

"I wasn't going to touch your son," I explained in mock-outrage, relaxing back into my own chair. "I think he's fine...really, really, fine", I half-whispered the last part as I sank back into my chair, causing incoherent screams of rage from the row in front of me, along with a new set of seat-quakes.

As I began to close my last functioning eye, the gritty remnants of the mystery bathroom pills I had eaten falling down my throat, I saw the wait-staff scrambling over and I observed three of them restraining a belligerent passenger as he attempted to wreak havoc on the airplane (or more specifically, my face.)

I was rudely shaken awake, and I looked up to see the drink-chick shaking my shoulder.

"Sir! Is what this man says true?", she asked, glancing back to the commotion. I looked down at my plastic cup and shook the last few ice chips, in what I hoped was the universal gesture for 'another drink, and cut the yapping'.

"Oh, no, I think you've had enough", she frowned sternly.

"OK, just yer phone number then," I drooled suggestively at her, and she stalked off in disgust. "Whatever", I thought to myself, "anything to get her to stop hitting on me every few minutes."

I was jolted awake an undisclosed amount of time later by the plane coming to a landing, and I respectfully waited until the plan came to a full and complete stop at the terminal before burp-vomiting a little of my stomach contents onto my shirt. I reached for my bag to get off this awful flying prison and saw that it would be some time before I could depart - all of these idiots were taking their sweet time procuring their carry-on luggage.

"Assholes!", I said out loud in my head, "How inconsiderate can you be? You know people are trying to get off the plane, yet you hold everyone up while you struggle to dislodge your bag from the overhead containers. A bag, it should be noted, that just as easily could have been checked in." Some people are just naturally self-centered, I decided. And then I thought back to my flight, and all I had seen and experienced, and that was when I realized - "OMG", I reflected, and pulled out my notepad and quickly wrote down my epiphany:

Terrorists.

The time I did ALL the drugs

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 07:40:30 +0100

Between shifts of sending out free donkey posters to the lucky inhabitants of this planet, we here at FDP sub-headquarters (East Coast) occasionally take drugs. It was during one of these monotonous drug-binges that we asked bobkerolls, our senior street correspondent, to provide a one or two sentence description of each drug he had consumed. This is purely for recreational and educational purposes so that the children, convicted Mormons, and other non-drug users will understand the drug-using experience without all of the babble usually associated with drugs.

What each drug I have taken feels like,

by bobkerolls

Cocaine: I feel like a choo-choo train.

Marijuana: I feel a little silly in my pants.

Mushrooms: The fire has become pixelated.

LSD: The fucking walls are in 3-D, and my eyeballs are not working correctly, godammit.

PCP: I think I want to do snow angels on the hood of this running car to stop the fucking voices in my heads and to stop my skin from becoming unbalanced.

Prescription painkillers: There is an invisible pillow between me and everything. Also, I want to pass out in the back of a car listening to trance music. Upon reading those sentences, I see now why people think drug users are douchebags.

Alcohol: Fuck you.

Speed: I'm going to decide whether my teeth or eyes are more jittery my teeth are hurting my eyes are too jittery GODAMMIT.

I have decided that in the interests of SCIENCE, I will attempt to take all the drugs, so that readers at home or at work can live vicariously through my bleeding gums and neck.

10:05. I have taken one tab of acid, and eaten two mushrooms (stems and caps). Unlike certain ladies I know (Editor's note: bobkerolls knows no ladies, we are pretty sure he meant to type 'ladles', of which he owns several) who get sick from eating mushrooms, I can down them like moldy popcorn.

10:07. Finished taking three shots of Jameson, and chugged a beer, maybe threw up in my mouth a little. No worries, the PCP laced joint will have me squared away in no time. No effects yet, except my heart is beating really fast and my mouth tastes like some girls I've kissed at 3AM.

10:14. One line of coke, one Vicodin, some weird pill that I've been told is speed (I'm almost certain its just a super caffeine pill), and another beer to wash down the Vics. The rest will need to be transcribed.

10:20. Stop asking me if I feel anything, I just feel a little sick is all.

10:25. I am going to fuck everyone in this room, and take...cover. Free money!

10:30. I am at war with my house. It makes a move, I make a move...checkmate motherfucker. Someone get me out of this fucking place, I need to breathe. Where is my coat - its cold outside and I'm going to be gone a long, long time.

10:34. My only hope is the trees, my only salvation the sky. My lower body feels like it's attempting mutiny - I'll punch my legs into submission!

10:45. 9/10 of everything is bullshit. I am the Arbiter of Truth, I am the Ghost Horse, I am the all-knowing all-seeing dog liver of Justice, dear god please make my feet come back, I love them very much.

11:00. (crying uncontrollably)

11:12. I think everything has worn off, I am a giant tongue. I can feel nothing but taste.

12:00. Maybe District 9 wasn't such a bad movie, maybe I misjudged it. OH GOD THE DRUGS HAVE CHANGED MY BRAIN.

2:20. I have now eaten a whole cheese pizza with hot sauce, and drank a six-pack of Bud Heavies. I threw up what looked a little like black mucus, but its all good. At least I remembered that District 9 sucked - I am back to being human again.

After a few days of recovery, I have come back to type this manuscript and make all the necessary spelling corrections and remove the 3-page non-rhyming poem that I wrote about gas stations. All in all, I think it was a success. To sum up, taking lots of simultaneous drugs is like being asleep - lots of weird dreams that you only half-remember later, you are never comfortable, and in the morning the sunlight hurts your eyes. I...I may have different sleep experiences than anyone else though.

Riding the mechanical bull at the liquor store

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 22:50:03 +0100

By 11 PM we had divested ourselves of the clucking nightmare that is thirty drunk Worcester girls. Sent back to their party bus by impatient bouncers explaining that their drunk was too drunk, we could still hear their shrill, accented curses echoing off the walls of the Alley.

The brief but cold wait in line helped reset overclocked nerves, and I was soon ordering a Stella in the Liquor Store's airlock lobby, an artificial and necessary calm before the storm. A Stella because the Liquor Store is apparently one of about three bars that do not serve Sam Adams, and the $6 charge did not improve the flavor.

All accounts were settled in the next room though, a boiling kettle of Boston's college young and socially-aggressive trash, heaving themselves onto the dance platforms, the predatory males, and of course, the mechanical bull.

The bull itself is more artistically complete than many of its brethren. Forget the truncated geometry of the usual apparatus, this was a recreation of the Beast.

Horns, hide, and placid bovine eyes enticed attention-hungry ladies and the occasional Überman from the crowd to test their usually ample centers of gravity against the pneumatic Judge.

And lo, none were worthy this night, as the bull left macho men wanting, and knocked some delicious nonsense into waves of improperly-attired girls (improperly-attired for the riding of cattle, at least).

Despite the damage being done to the stalled Women's Movement, their is some joy to be found in this spectacle besides the chance of viewing a fleeting boob or disappearing G-string.

The bull, through its human masters, decides how long your moment of fame is going to last. Some skill, a little luck, and an enormous ass will help in this arena as in all others, but ultimately your time is over, and barring a truly spectacular face-assisted landing, you are soon forgotten.

Well know this, my lovelies. I might not remember any of you, but I will forget none of you. One day that Bull will come for me, and I will join you in the legion of the unworthy, remembering our dance with Judgement, wondering what if - what if at that fateful moment we had leaned left instead of right.

Valentine's Day Special

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:49:40 +0100

We here at FDP value your romance. That is why we have waited until after the Day of Valentine's to produce our nearly yearly Pre-First Annual Valentine's Day Special (now with more bonus fruit).

Realizing, as we all did, the momentousness of the situation, the FDP writer's room was very quiet today, as all one of our writers thought extra fucking hard about how to express all the love that we feel for you cocksuckers. And then it hit us like a ghost sliding through gauze - Clarence Carter!

That's right - the man who brought us Strokin', the American classic devoted to the finer points of amour. Where was his love? You see, he has been delighting couples from their wedding bed to their death's bed for over thirty years. Yet, all we do is take - when do we give back to the man who gave us so much love?

No worries, that's what WE are here for (unlike you shiftless amateurs). I mean, Clarence had questions - questions he wanted answered, and no one ever bothered (except by lovemaking, which is not the answer to everything, despite what your irresponsible parents have told you).

So let's go now, and through the magic of COMPACT DISCS have a little repartee with CC:

[PLAY button]

[The song begins, and Clarence sings about his advanced lovemaking techniques, and the various directions that he thrusts his pelvis in. Then he begins to get philosophical]

Clarence Carter:   Let me ask you somethin'....

[PAUSE button]

FDP: We would be delighted to answer any and all questions that thou might have, Mr. Carter, do go on. Do not let us interrupt you, but rather, pour forth all the questions you have been meaning to ask. Questions, perhaps, that one might usually save for a meeting with one's maker. For you see, Clarence (may we call you Clarence? I'm sure it's fine, right?), we are all-knowingish, and way less completely-made-up than your no-doubt pagan god. Anyway, proceed.

[PLAY button]

CC: What time of day do you like to make love?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: Wow. Thank you for asking about us, Claire (may we call you thatANYWAY moving on), most people we interview just continue to walk by, a very select few actually answer our questions, and you are the very first person to ask a question about us - about how we feel, and our interests. It...it brings a tear to the eye, I'll reckon...not mine, but many of our readers, I'm sure (shakes fist threateningly)...wait, where was I...oh yes...what time of day do I like to make love...what time of day...I guess...evening? Although that's not really a time of day, is it? Wait - wait - don't quote me on that...I want to change my answer...I'm going with mid-morning...or...is this a trick? Like, should I say "all day" to prove my randiness? Um...hang on...I got it - my final answer is "From when I wake up to when I lay my head down, that's when I feel like laying pipe" - or is that a euphemism for pooping? Fuck - I blew it - stupid! Stupid!

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love just before breakfast?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: At 3PM? Who would make love then? A man's gotta eat, Care Bear, basic needs, you know? Anyway, I would worry about jizz in my food and whatnot. Especially if I was having a bowl of uncooked egg whites for breakfast, like I normally do.

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love while you watched the late, late show?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: With Craig Ferguson? Do you mean actually watching that while making love, or just making love while it's on? Because if you were watching it - that...that would kind of be like making love to Craig Ferguson, right? Am I right about that?

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love on a couch?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: Whoa, slow down there Kama Sutra Boy.   On a couch? Yes, and I've used a bed before too - look out world. Don't suppose you'd like to answer any of our questions, now, would you?

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love on the back seat of a car?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: What are you, Fucking Dr. Seuss? No, Clare-Cart, I've never made love in a box, with a fox, or while being sat on by a goddamn elephant, either. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you so interested in my love life? To be perfectly honest with you, I didn't even know what this song was about until my thirtieth birthday, when the woman with the large Adam's Apple finally indoctrinated me into the World of Love (the ride at the fair is correctly named in its honor). So maybe I haven't done all these exotic things that you have, C-lence, I'm still the king of the bedroom!! I'LL SHOW YOU ABOUT MAKING LOVE!!!

[Editor's note: The remaining part of this transcript is meaningless babble and sobbing - we apologize for anyone at home, making love]

Partners with Capt. Class Action Suit, possibly.

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 19:17:07 +0100

I received one of THOSE emails recently:

brohammer27

Best regards!

This mail may be a surprise to you because you did not give me the permission to do so and neither do you know me but before I tell you about myself I want you to please forgive me for sending this mail without your permission. I am writing this letter in confidence believing that if it is the will of God for you to help me and my family, God almighty will bless and reward you abundantly. I need an honest and trust worthy person like you to entrust this huge transfer project unto.

Now I'm not going to sit here and ridicule this poor fucker's English, or make fun of the ludicrous claims contained within this email. Nor will turn this into a discussion on 419 scams, as that is old news. In fact, at this point, if anyone falls for this type of stupidity anymore, than they deserve what they get: they are either greedy, stupid, or elderly - three groups of people that get no support from me (in fact, I would say that I am Officially at War with these people.)

What I would like to do is point out this man's (I'm assuming) email address. Brohammer27. For someone who doesn't seem to quite understand the language, he does understand how to make the awesomest alias on the Internet. I can't believe this hasn't already been taken. One can only assume that anyone nutsy enought to style themselves as brohammer must have taken this name by force.

Luckily for you, using my prodigous powers of Name:Appearance Reconstruction (you might say I am the world's foremost expert on this. You might say that, along with any number of things, in fact), I have sketched a perfect recreation of what Brohammer must look like:

No one is safe.

In related news, my brain's thirteenth birthday is tomorrow.

Noah Lived In Some Crazy Times

Sat, 06 Feb 2010 06:27:57 +0100

Often times when I go into public restrooms, I find that someone has left behind some Jesus-themed literature (this happens more often in the South than in the Northeast, AND THUS THE CIRCLE OF STEREOTYPES CONTINUES). I usually flip through it to see if it's one I already have, and if it's not, I pocket it for later perusal.

So far, I have not given over my life to ALL POWERFUL JESUS, despite these pamphlet's various ways of enticing me into His Warm and Terrifying Embrace. Some use badly drawn, yet still frightening images of demons (perhaps made more so because of the artist's obvious mental problems), along with appallingly poor English, to try to convince me of the error of my Heathen ways. Yet others will use everyday situations that a person from 1950 might find himself in, along with appallingly bad English, to try to gently assure me that I am certainly going to Burn In A Lake Of Fire For All Eternity.

Sadly, my collection of these glorious testaments to mankind's descent into imbecility has been lost. No doubt confiscated by the Mormons, who are always taking my things.

Luckily, I visited the South last month, and have brought back one of these artifacts of Madness. I would eventually like to examine and discuss the entire thing, but at 2:45 AM on a Friday night, strung out on speed and gasoline vapours, the idea of turning my mind over to these raving lunatics for more than a page seems a sure way to break my already brittle psyche.

One page will have to do for now, Aggressive Readers.

Ah, but what a page it is! Try not to look too closely, rather, step back and see if you can feel God's Love emanating from your monitor. Do you feel that? Yeah, that's cancer. GOTCHA! Anyway, without spoiling the Where's Waldo like fun of trying to determine EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE, I will sum up the message: At the End of Times, people will act very badly. Theoretically we can see this in the scene depicted, which judging from the styles of dress and haircut, seems to take place in a 1920's speakeasy-wharf bar.

FDP's Abso-Favorite Things Of All Time About This Picture:

1. The woman saying "Stop it! My husband is watching us!": Here is a fun game. Find anyone in this picture who is looking at that couple. Which honestly, isn't as odd as the fact that some of the people aren't watching the two dudes fighting with blades that can only be described as 'short swords'.

2. The guy proclaiming that he will "bet on the little man!": First of all, why? Does he have some insider info - why would the little guy ever win? Also, which one is the little guy?

3. The out-of-place monogamous couple against the back wall: You did notice they are both dudes, right? Apparently, regardless of the fact that they are very close, and saying sweet things to each other, they are an example of evil. I think they are supposed to be an example of men who are "lovers of their own selves", which frankly fills me relief, as the first time I read this, I thought for sure God meant me.

4. The amiable drunk, shouting "I have the power...Lucifer is lord!": One has to assume he said the first part in his best He-Man voice. Honestly, this man is either modeled after me, or is someone I need to make friends with. "I have the power...Lucifer is lord!" has immediately become one of my top giggle-inducing phrases. Although if one of my companions responded with:

"Yes, and we are bringing peace with a one world government - a New Age", I would need an extra word balloon to go underneath, for my response of, "Uhh....yeah...do you have to say that everytime?"

5. This guy: This freak is going to hell for his French waiter mustache alone. Also, "Let's go give him the business"? This owl is all wet - he needs the bum's rush from this gin mill! Haw haw haw.

So what did we learn, eh? Because these exercises are not for comedy (obviously)...no, they are to Teach...and the lesson for tonight is that Today's conditions are "the same as it was in the days of Noah"...which according to my cursory investigation was around 2300 BC. Hmmm...well, I don't want to be the first to say it...but bars back then were kinda...badass.

So sign me up for that time travel test trial, holmes. I KNOW NOW WHAT I WAS PUT ON THIS EARTH TO DO.

How Google Voice is Trying to Communicate With Me

Fri, 05 Feb 2010 00:51:47 +0100

For those of you who need some explanation, Google Voice is a service (offered by Google...or did you know that already?) that will, among other things, transcribe your voicemail. And not only is it free, but it doesn't work for shit! Actually, it is still in beta and available by invite only (I have a few, if anyone is interested), so to be fair, it is still being improved.

Doubtlessly it will become as finely-tuned as all Google products, so I am not making fun of the concept, but rather the execution as it stands now. So with no further exposition needed, I now present to you:

Today's Top Picks for Google Voice Madness on My Phone:

Ah yes, I see I have received a call from my cryptic friend who is just starting to learn 'the English'. I'm glad they are changing his whole oil though, sometime gas stations take advantage of foreigners and only change the half. Although that might explain why he has to "change that a lot".

Sweet, Fat Albert called. Oh wait - it's actually a completely blank voicemail, and apparently Google Voice feels bad, so it made up someone who was so excited to talk to me that they just shouted 'hey' over and over again, like I do when I call my own voice mail to cheer myself up. Hmmm...

Hello Peace, what's that you say? You want me to give you a chance? Very funny Peace, you need to get some new material. How did you get this number anyway? It was those bastards at MoveOn, wasn't it? They're pissed because I don't respond to their hourly emails...

Final Verdict: 4 out of 5 Shoggoths. We will try again tomorrow, but for now I will try to beat back the crawling horrors of the deep that have been summoned by my phone, the scurrying sound of a thousand fingernails barely audible over the hiss and pop of the poorly recorded voicemails...

Good Clean Jokes

Thu, 04 Feb 2010 07:05:02 +0100

Look - have you tried writing every day? Shit is hard BELIEVE THAT. Well, maybe not for you, aggressive reader...not for you.

ANYWAY, I am still considering this Wednesday's post, even if it is technically Thursday - the internet was down, so I couldn't post (for those of you that, like me, are pricks about usage rules, I am preemptively defending my capitalization choice here. Since I am referring to 'internet' as 'internet service', it remains uncapitalized. If the entire worldwide connected network of computers comprising the 'Internet' were down, then I would have capitalized it, and through my capitalization, you would have realized that SOME REAL SHIT HAD GONE DOWN).

And thank god the Internet had not gone down eh? For then you would have missed out on my latest bile-filled entry re: The Best of Good Clean Jokes by our favorite house misogynist, Bob Phillips.

Today's sample jokes:

Backseat Driver
"Daddy, before you married Mommy, who told you how to drive?"

Ha ha holy shit, that is funny. Who can't relate to this? We've all been stuck trying to navigate our way to the nearest Wal-Mart while our horrible shrew of a wife barks (obviously asinine) directions at us. This is the male condition, and I find at least three solid chuckles in this joke. Possibly a guffaw.

Deaf
Stewardess: I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but we left your wife behind in Chicago.
Man: Thank goodness! For a moment there I thought I was going deaf!

Is there...is there something you want to tell us, Mr. Philips?

Germs
Husband: Don't put that money in your mouth. There are germs on it.
Wife: Don't be silly. Even a germ can't live on the money you earn.

Oh good Christ. Is there anyone, in the history of literacy, who has read this joke and thought it was funny? I mean, I appreciate Bob's half-assed attempt to pander to the female sex with this pathetic "joke" (wait, I don't appreciate it at all! I'm a filthy liar.)

So many things wrong - first of all, the premise is as daft as any porno movie: why the fuck would a grown-ass (non-stripper) woman be putting money in her mouth? Second of all, it's just mean. Besides just reinforcing shitty stereotypes as the man as breadwinner and the woman as nagging bitch, it also doesn't have the teasing tone of similar hetero-normative shit like Everyone Loves Raymond. It's just bitter as day-old coffee and half as humorous.

Well kids, that's all I can take of Bob Philip's closet hatred for his wife today. I think I'll go curse in the darkness for a while, that always cheers me up!

Maybe he meant "proscribe"?

Tue, 02 Feb 2010 20:59:23 +0100

Continuing on our recent theme...

So look, I just got back from central Florida, and the radio waves there are filled with the sort of disposable hip-hop that one would normally avoid (because listening to too much will give you ear syphillis). That is the only reason why I've heard the song I've picked today.

You know what, why am I making excuses for you (two) people? Bunch a damn haters, man. Anyway, I present for your listening displeasure Say Aah by Trey Songz (featuring Fabolous) [note to my computer: sorry spell checker, we have to leave this one].

I think the material for an entire dissertation on strange lyrics is in here ("we don't buy no drinks at the bar": really? You buy from a waitress? How exotic!), but the particular line I would like to focus happens around 2:16 into the song:

I make ya say ahh jus' like I'm ya docta
all I prescribe is cranberry and vodka

I feel like a lot of people probably jumped on Fabolous [listen spell checker, we'll get them next time] for this, but I'm not joining in, because we don't really know what Fabolous' patient's ailment is. Vodka could be used as an emergency disinfectant, and cranberries? Well those magical superfruits could be used in any number of ways, including preventing tooth decay or as a ward against kidney stones. Just their immune system boosting qualities alone give Fabolous an excellent reason for his prescription, so let's all rethink our earlier misconceptions, eh?

Anyway, more information can be found on these wonderful epigynous berries here, here, and here.

Oh, and one final note for Mr.Ulous - to be precise, I believe it was D. Brown who blamed it on the 'liquor', Jamie Foxx actually blamed it on the 'al-al-al-alcohol'. DONT BE HATIN'

The Right Temperature

Tue, 02 Feb 2010 02:58:26 +0100

Continuing on from last week's post, we shall now examine a point of interest that I have been pondering for some time: what exactly, is Sean Paul's temperature that he references his (aptly named) song Temperature?

(note: I had to use this video for copyright reasons, but the official video has infinitely more boobies)

The most telling lyric from this song is first heard at the :21 mark "I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm". From this lyric, we can begin to extract certain key facts.

1. Sean Paul's temperature must emanate from an area away from his body - even the most cursory considerations of this problem will lead one to realize that the extreme heat needed to shelter someone from a storm would be damaging to that person if the heat source were too close.

2. Sean Paul's temperature zone must be controlled by Sean Paul in terms of shape - again, a perfectly spheroid area of heat generation would set ablaze any thing underfoot of Sean Paul, so I imagine he most often uses an umbrella-type dome covering for his storm defenses (the official video alludes to this - see the 1:19 mark).

As a side note, we can rule out using extreme cold as a type of temperature control for storm-shelter. Although this would have been the most practical solution (imagine a solid covering of crystal, brought about by near absolute zero conditions in the molecules above), Sean Paul specifically states that he "wanna be keepin' you warm" (the :18 mark is the first time we hear this assertion).

Now moving on to the heart of the matter - what temperature would be needed to vaporize water, and what distance would it need to be from Sean Paul and his ward to also provide warmth?

The first part first. 1/15th of gram seems a good estimate of an average raindrop size, water vaporizes at 540 degrees (C) and our raindrops will be falling at the standard rate of 9.81m per second per second.

So given that information, I began to work on the thickness of the Sean Paul temperature barrier, and tried to find a good compromise between thickness and temperature (if it was hot enough, it could be very thin, but if it was thick enough, it could be closer to the 540 degree mark (or even colder, since technically you could just raise the water temperature to 100 degrees, and have it evaporate, but that seems highly impractical).

On further thought, however, I realized that since Sean Paul has the ability to instantaneously manipulate temperature (for reasons discussed above), I'm sure he could maintain a steady field of 540 degrees (F) in that area, and immediately vaporize the water (or snow) that came into his area of influence.

The second part of this issue, the distance this field of influence would need to be from Sean Paul to both vaporize the offending particles AND provide warmth to his dependent, I will turn over to those readers with a more scientific mind than my own. I look forward to gathering more information on this problem and hope that we could one day have our work jointly published (e.g. Sean Paul and Climate Change: Temperatures, Distances, and the Costs and Benefits of His Powers. FDP et al, 2010).