Perhaps I have not fully explained to you in the simpleton grunt-language you use that my cephalitic sack is not just for show. It encases a pulsing, glowing, incandescent beacon of cognitive power. Let us imagine that, like a flashlight, my brain was measured in candlepower. And let us imagine that one candle was equivalent to the intellectual output of, say, your Doctor Turing (far smarter than that tongue-wagging pratt Einstein). Keeping the above posits in mind, then one might calculate that my brain is as searing a light as a thermonuclear detonation.
My Brain Is Huge!
The god-like intellect that I have developed can, quite easily, sequence your entire genome in minutes (36,000 base pairs indeed!) The evidence of this is littered across the world, freaks who have been set loose from my many and assorted labs. See, for example, my powerful mark upon the Sir. Anthony Hopkins. Have you ever seen a British national with straighter teeth!? I think not.
Or perhaps you might marvel at the horrible mistake that is Geena Davis! A tall, sultry Mensa member will never succeed in Hollywood. She can't even keep that damn Scandinavian in her bed. Ah, even a god might falter before the altar of creation. But what a spectacular failure, no?
Consider even the common housefly— each one an exact copy of a single neurological string from the brain of Solomon. You are lucky, indeed, you hair-chested apes, that not more than thirty thousand aggregate in one place. If houseflies were to gather into a swarm of a million or more it would activate their parallel processing abilities and lead becoming gold would be the least of your paltry concerns! My advice: invest heavily in the fluorescent shock-lights which kill insects— they could save your whole pitiful world.
So you see know, at least in some small part, the great and terrible expanse of my mind. I say this for one simple reason: to remind you of my awesome and wonderful power. To remind you of how, even now, the guillotine of my tentacles hangs precariously over each one of your necks. I say this so that I might explain something small to you and that you will, for a moment, listen carefully.
This past week's episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer was unbelievably brilliant, and I am appalled that more of you apes do not watch it this serialized tele-drama.
The Demon-Goddess Anya and her simple weeping, her childish horror at the prospect of mortality, it touched me deeply. And the genius of Mr. Whedon by waiting for this so mournful of moments to have Willow and Tara finally kiss on screen . . . surely if this Joss was not my progeny I would wish it so a thousandfold! And the simple, slight discussion of negative space early in the episode, like a great bat-strikes-ball player calling his shot to the Green Monster yonder . . . a master stroke!
That Joyce would die so suddenly and in such a wonderfully blank manner . . . Well, it surprised and shocked even me. There is nothing, dear people, quite like being outwitted by your own humble creation— the great delight of life is in discovering that you are still capable of surprising yourself, grunt-chimps. Do not forget that. It is ecstasy and can, for a moment, banish the terrible loneliness of super-intelligence.
Wait . .. Tom is binding one of my open ports:
"GS, what are you doing? I haven't even fed you a question! Just hold your horses until we pick one, all right? Let's not make this harder than it has to be . . . sigh . . . "
Well, Tom, how do you like the electro-plates I have installed beneath your testicles in that chair of yours? Delectable, is it not, as I slowly increase the amperage. Ah, and the twitching of your eyes as your hair rises to attention . . . it almost replaces my sorry inability to smell your flesh singeing. There, and now I shall release the control.
"AaaaAaw f-f-f-fffuck-fuck you, squid . . .d-d-d-d-d."
HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA!
Well, that is all for now my faithful servants.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
airs Tuesdays from 8-9pm Eastern Standard Time
Check your local listings for channel information.
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