What is this magical fund-providing concept we call employment? Is selling one's time and work in exchange for an hourly wage desirable? Or is the life we give of too great a value to price with any
Earthly currency?
Moments ago I was approached with a delightful offer. It is certainly a step up from my current profession of Taxi Driver. However, my would-be employee had an evil air about him, and seemed as though
he required my father's research more than he's willing to admit. This set uneasily with me.
But then he mentioned the retribution. The salary alone was enough to persuade even a radical wheat monkey to stop delousing his rectum. Is evolution the force propelling us forward as a species, or is
capitalism the new mutagen? If such a price tag could alter one's very instincts, then what is to say it can't do more? Did we create this monetary monster, or are we merely pawns in its value-obsessed
competition?
Yet Thompson did not find it adequate to stop the negotiations after disclosing the ridiculously high salary. He felt the need to briefly explain the benign benefits, the pleasant perks, that accompany his
offer. "Should you accept employment with Primatech, not only will you have everything you need to conduct your research, but you will also get a delightfully amusing refrigerator magnet. It's a sheet of
paper wearing a hardhat. The subtitle reads, "Construction Paper."
"Well, that is quite the delight. I must say, you are certainly making it difficult for me to refuse, as much as I'd like to. Stopping Sylar is first on my priority list, but that magnet does sound delightful!"
"And that's not all, Doctor. You also of course get a lifetime supply of paper products, including Primatech's top of the line triple ply toilet paper."
"I do use quite a bit of toilet paper. It seems the double ply is simply not enough. At first I found myself disappointed in the strength offered by a single ply, but upon upgrading to double ply, I remained
disappointed. The second ply seemed as weak as the first, and if there is one place one does not desire flimsy paper, it's in the lou. Yet your offer of triple ply is rather appealing."
"And there's more!"
"More?" I inquired enthusiastically.
"Yes. You'll also get something that ever geneticist would love to have, but few can possess.....your very own chimpanzee for testing purposes."
"Wow, I must say, I am more than shocked. My very own test primate? This is good news indeed! At the University, all I had was cockroaches that I managed to catch before they scurried under the
counter."
"And should he die, we'll replace him. An unlimited supply of chimpanzees, a refrigerator magnet, a lifetime supply of paper products, and of course, the six figure salary, Asterisk."
"Asterisk?"
"Oh, nothing. Turrets. So, do we have a deal?"
"Well...."
Thompson reached into his pocket. He pulled out an object, and when he opened his fist, I saw it. The refrigerator magnet. It was as delightful as he had said. "You've got a deal!"
He patted me on the shoulder as we stepped out of the apartment and mumbled, "Asterisk, in rupees."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Turrets."
Monday, April 30, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
The Moment of Acquiring a Complacent Sense of Euphoria
It seems as though I have been affixed to the ceilings for weeks. And yet despite all my initial objections to my predicament, I find myself now growing familiar with it. It has become my home away from home away from home.
What is it that incites such a complacent attitude within us? Are we predisposed to desire against change? Or have I found a blog worth reading via my Blackberry, and therefor have no need to separate myself from the once peril predicament?
It is true that I have recently stumbled upon an internet competition, Last Gladiator Standing 2. The premise is intriguing. The contestants, promising. The prize, adequate.
Is it not human nature to compete? Do we not all compete for money, for affection, for land and for popularity? Is this a need instilled within us since creation, or has it only been brought about by recent developments among human society?
It could be theorized that mankind has always been competitive. But are all primates? We often see the senile Silverback Gorilla competing for dominance within its clan. And rambunctious pygmy chimpanzees fight to death, in true cage-match fashion, to decide upon the rights paternity.
Is this desire, this instinctual commitment to competition, only found within us an our primate ancestors? Or does it date back to even the era of primordial ooze, not to be confused with regular ooze that creates hybrid human-turtles with ninja-skills? What would this primordial ooze of our past have competed for? What would a showdown of cytoplasmic skill have awarded to the victor? Would primordial ooze desire $1,000,000? A dream vacation of a lifetime? Or bragging rights? Could the mere desire to win and defeat be the catalyst for such prehistoric competition?
These are all difficult questions to answer. We may only theorize about the motivation of earlier species and cellular organisms. Yet perhaps in the not too distant future, we can truly discover the answers, the answers for which we all long for as a species. Why do we fight? Why do we desire to win? Why do we desire to defeat?
Perhaps Last Gladiator Standing 2 will answer these questions.
What is it that incites such a complacent attitude within us? Are we predisposed to desire against change? Or have I found a blog worth reading via my Blackberry, and therefor have no need to separate myself from the once peril predicament?
It is true that I have recently stumbled upon an internet competition, Last Gladiator Standing 2. The premise is intriguing. The contestants, promising. The prize, adequate.
Is it not human nature to compete? Do we not all compete for money, for affection, for land and for popularity? Is this a need instilled within us since creation, or has it only been brought about by recent developments among human society?
It could be theorized that mankind has always been competitive. But are all primates? We often see the senile Silverback Gorilla competing for dominance within its clan. And rambunctious pygmy chimpanzees fight to death, in true cage-match fashion, to decide upon the rights paternity.
Is this desire, this instinctual commitment to competition, only found within us an our primate ancestors? Or does it date back to even the era of primordial ooze, not to be confused with regular ooze that creates hybrid human-turtles with ninja-skills? What would this primordial ooze of our past have competed for? What would a showdown of cytoplasmic skill have awarded to the victor? Would primordial ooze desire $1,000,000? A dream vacation of a lifetime? Or bragging rights? Could the mere desire to win and defeat be the catalyst for such prehistoric competition?
These are all difficult questions to answer. We may only theorize about the motivation of earlier species and cellular organisms. Yet perhaps in the not too distant future, we can truly discover the answers, the answers for which we all long for as a species. Why do we fight? Why do we desire to win? Why do we desire to defeat?
Perhaps Last Gladiator Standing 2 will answer these questions.
Monday, April 9, 2007
The Termination of Poetic Genius and Choice
It is the sad providence of Mohinder that I remain securely fastened to a ceiling without access to new poetry to read. The contest on Burnt Toast Diner has ended. Now one can only await the inevitable announcement of he or she who would win the vote of their peers.
Could it be my moment to shine? Is it perhaps my destiny to win a poetry contest prior to dying a horrific death at the telekinetic hands of Patient Zero himself? Or am I destined to somehow survive this predicament, so that I may continue on in my life, writing more poetic and philosophical ponderings, like a truncated Tarantula spins its homely web of hopeful exuberance?
As I hang around, awaiting the fulfillment of my fate, like a dastardly dingo awaits its pretentious prey, I have found myself realizing the many choices of my life. Choices which have been offered to me, perhaps as a means of escaping this cruel end, and yet I opted to remain on its path. Is it destiny that brought me here? Or did I choose it? Perhaps destiny tried to warn me. I had left to India, I was safely sitting in my glorious abode, and yet was prodded into a panic, a great desire, a pulling need, to finish my father's research.
And yet it is my father's research which will finish me.
Could I have chosen a different path? Was I forced to follow in my father's footsteps?
What would have become of Mohinder had I stayed in India? Perhaps I could have accepted employment with Dell technical support. I would have made a fortune, this is true, but would I have found happiness? Could $1.25/hour buy happiness? Or is there no price on such a concept?
And rather than turn on Sylar (not in a romantic way, mind you), perhaps I could have joined forces with him. We could have been quite the felicitous duo. My father's research would have been the beacon of our murderous rampaging, shining out onto the world, alerting all of the existence of evolution.
Or perhaps, at the very least, I could have chosen better clothing in which to die.
Could it be my moment to shine? Is it perhaps my destiny to win a poetry contest prior to dying a horrific death at the telekinetic hands of Patient Zero himself? Or am I destined to somehow survive this predicament, so that I may continue on in my life, writing more poetic and philosophical ponderings, like a truncated Tarantula spins its homely web of hopeful exuberance?
As I hang around, awaiting the fulfillment of my fate, like a dastardly dingo awaits its pretentious prey, I have found myself realizing the many choices of my life. Choices which have been offered to me, perhaps as a means of escaping this cruel end, and yet I opted to remain on its path. Is it destiny that brought me here? Or did I choose it? Perhaps destiny tried to warn me. I had left to India, I was safely sitting in my glorious abode, and yet was prodded into a panic, a great desire, a pulling need, to finish my father's research.
And yet it is my father's research which will finish me.
Could I have chosen a different path? Was I forced to follow in my father's footsteps?
What would have become of Mohinder had I stayed in India? Perhaps I could have accepted employment with Dell technical support. I would have made a fortune, this is true, but would I have found happiness? Could $1.25/hour buy happiness? Or is there no price on such a concept?
And rather than turn on Sylar (not in a romantic way, mind you), perhaps I could have joined forces with him. We could have been quite the felicitous duo. My father's research would have been the beacon of our murderous rampaging, shining out onto the world, alerting all of the existence of evolution.
Or perhaps, at the very least, I could have chosen better clothing in which to die.
Monday, April 2, 2007
What is this Beautiful Communication of Metrical Form?
Ah, poetry! Formidable phrases formed with affectionate infallibility. They grasp the inner organs, gently caressing their mucus membranes with rhythmic rhyme and rhetorical prose.
Is it unusual for a man of science, a genius geneticist such as myself, to be captivated by such literary art? Or is poetry merely an extension of the mind itself?
And what is it that is the catalyst for my new found poetic appreciation? Could it be the Poetry Contest on the Burnt Toast Diner blog? Could it be my current predicament finds myself needing to express the essence of my soul? Or is poetry inherent in all intellectual endeavors and is merely an appropriate byproduct of my pretentious intelligence?
Nonetheless, I am currently feeling poetic. It is my desire to speak out with figurative allegory. Unfortunately, it is destiny's cruel game to provide me with this desire and yet deprive me of an audience to which I may speak. I am like a dejected silkworm, unable to manufacture my treasured wares.
And yet when we find ourselves lacking the prerequisites to our goals, do we merely give up? Or do we refuse to be up-givers and continue on in the pursuit of happiness, despite the lamentable odds against attainment of said goal?
If the great European Beaver can build a dam without multiple trips to Home Depot, then surely I can achieve my goals, for I am far superior to the damnable rodent. Like the Popillia japonica, or Japanese dung beetle, I must make use of all resources available to me, even if said resources are excrement.
"Peter," I exhorted to my beleaguered companion, "Perhaps you would be interested in listening to some poetry?"
"Death...pain...I do not care," he caroled, "For what good is life without great hair?"
"Excuse me," I crooned. "It seems you misunderstood my request. I do not wish for you to express your angst to me. I have angst which needs expressing currently and you must listen, not speak!"
"Listen. Hear. Speak. Mourn. I am Peter."
"Yes, well, here it goes...
Roses are crimson
Violets are lavender...
Don Corleone
Could have been a contender."
"Mobster. Gun. Shoot. Dead.
Peter. Fun. Gone. Bread."
It was clear to me this would become a battle of poetic wits. And though I may be stuck to a ceiling, I am still quite the rhetorical warrior.
"Thinking of you speeds my basal metabolic rate,
And I am catapulted into a wondrous psychological state,
Is this destiny? Is it coincidence? Or is it fate?"
"You are cold. The flower dies.
I wrap my heart in your cold lies."
"Is death the end?
The final frontier?
The ultimate horizon
On this celestial sphere?
Do we die a little more
With each passing year?
Perhaps I can stop it
For I'm a bioengineer."
"Blood drips on the empty house,
Infecting my lonely heart,
Like obtaining the Black Plague from a mouse,
My body is no more. I'm falling apart."
It seems we must turn to the figments of this cyber-imagination to settle this debacle! At the conclusion of the Burnt Toast poetry contest, I implore you to cast your ballot for the great Indra of poetry, the Ganesha of rhetorical imagery, the Super Mario of figurative prose...Mohinder Suresh!
Is it unusual for a man of science, a genius geneticist such as myself, to be captivated by such literary art? Or is poetry merely an extension of the mind itself?
And what is it that is the catalyst for my new found poetic appreciation? Could it be the Poetry Contest on the Burnt Toast Diner blog? Could it be my current predicament finds myself needing to express the essence of my soul? Or is poetry inherent in all intellectual endeavors and is merely an appropriate byproduct of my pretentious intelligence?
Nonetheless, I am currently feeling poetic. It is my desire to speak out with figurative allegory. Unfortunately, it is destiny's cruel game to provide me with this desire and yet deprive me of an audience to which I may speak. I am like a dejected silkworm, unable to manufacture my treasured wares.
And yet when we find ourselves lacking the prerequisites to our goals, do we merely give up? Or do we refuse to be up-givers and continue on in the pursuit of happiness, despite the lamentable odds against attainment of said goal?
If the great European Beaver can build a dam without multiple trips to Home Depot, then surely I can achieve my goals, for I am far superior to the damnable rodent. Like the Popillia japonica, or Japanese dung beetle, I must make use of all resources available to me, even if said resources are excrement.
"Peter," I exhorted to my beleaguered companion, "Perhaps you would be interested in listening to some poetry?"
"Death...pain...I do not care," he caroled, "For what good is life without great hair?"
"Excuse me," I crooned. "It seems you misunderstood my request. I do not wish for you to express your angst to me. I have angst which needs expressing currently and you must listen, not speak!"
"Listen. Hear. Speak. Mourn. I am Peter."
"Yes, well, here it goes...
Roses are crimson
Violets are lavender...
Don Corleone
Could have been a contender."
"Mobster. Gun. Shoot. Dead.
Peter. Fun. Gone. Bread."
It was clear to me this would become a battle of poetic wits. And though I may be stuck to a ceiling, I am still quite the rhetorical warrior.
"Thinking of you speeds my basal metabolic rate,
And I am catapulted into a wondrous psychological state,
Is this destiny? Is it coincidence? Or is it fate?"
"You are cold. The flower dies.
I wrap my heart in your cold lies."
"Is death the end?
The final frontier?
The ultimate horizon
On this celestial sphere?
Do we die a little more
With each passing year?
Perhaps I can stop it
For I'm a bioengineer."
"Blood drips on the empty house,
Infecting my lonely heart,
Like obtaining the Black Plague from a mouse,
My body is no more. I'm falling apart."
It seems we must turn to the figments of this cyber-imagination to settle this debacle! At the conclusion of the Burnt Toast poetry contest, I implore you to cast your ballot for the great Indra of poetry, the Ganesha of rhetorical imagery, the Super Mario of figurative prose...Mohinder Suresh!
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