It wasn't a tornado but it was a heavy thundershower and the wheatfields turned to zinc as great trampling hissing sheets of rain advanced slowly across them.

Nice people often try to contact me for permission to use my games. It is appreciated but please don't bother. These games are yours to do whatever you want to do to them. Feel free to download, modify, mangle them to bits. I won't mind. And if you don't want to give me credit, that's absolutely fine too.

“I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”

“Monopoly. Everybody had it. Nobody liked it…and it’s simple why. Here’s what everyone here has been like at one point during a game of Monopoly: BAM Fuck this game! It’s four in the morning Grandma, YOU WIN!
I’m sitting on Baltic with crap! I’m paying luxury tax out the ass! Oh, and where’d you get the pink fifties? I hate it when you’re the banker Grandma. Don’t touch me Grandpa, ‘Nana’s a cheating whoooore!”

The problem is that there is no need for the decision markets. The executives and politicians like to make decisions themselves. With all due respect to my readers, I’ll have a graphic metaphor. Trying to sell the concept of decision markets to executives and politicians is like trying to sell very sophisticated, mechanized, high-performance dildos to young men; there is no need for that in the market. For some mysterious reason, the young men insist on performing “that”… using their own instrument.

A man who uses a great many words to express his meaning is like a bad marksman who, instead of aiming a single stone at an object, takes up a handful and throws at it in hopes he may hit.

It is possible to believe that all the past is but the beginning of a beginning, and that all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn. It is possible to believe that all that the human mind has ever accomplished is but the dream before the awakening… All this world is heavy with the promise of greater things, and a day will come, one day in the unending succession of days, when beings, beings who are now latent in our thoughts and hidden in our loins, shall stand upon this earth as one stands upon a footstool, and shall laugh and reach out their hands amidst the stars.

Unscrupulous journalists looking for sensational headlines sometimes target cryonics by focusing on specific procedures, such as neuropreservation, and spinning them into lurid tales of wrongdoing. In one recent example, two small openings routinely made in the cranium for monitoring purposes using standard neurosurgical techniques became the story, “Head drilled full of holes!” The same kind of yellow journalism would describe a traditional funeral with the headline: “Funeral Home Scandal: Bodies injected with poison, organs mutilated, remains stuffed into wood boxes and covered with dirt!” Needless to say, this is the worst kind of tabloid journalism. It is both unfair and profoundly disrespectful to patients and their families.

Shit is the tofu of cursing.

Robert wept silently, angry with himself because he knew that half his wretchedness was just self-pity, exploiting his grief as a disguise.