2 posts tagged “humor”
Not that my proclivity towards nigh-arrogant ranting and circuitous introspection demands any apologies*, but I realized this weekend there are some significant though well-concealed advantages to being a self-absorbed navel-gazer.
You’re going to need me to back that one up, aren’t you?
OK, let’s start with this brilliantly clever circle graph that received its fifteen minutes of fame when it landed on the front page of HuffPo last Friday.
To some, this may seem like an outright insult to Christians on a national level. To others, it comes off… well, it comes off exactly the same way; it’s just that this group of people delights in the insult instead of taking offense to it. It’s why we have wars, you know.
But what if the philosophical implications of this graphic are deeper than either of those cramped assumptions? Isn’t it possible the obvious joke is only there as an appetizer for your brain? Could there be something beyond the glib comparison of three movie monsters to the Messiah?
And if I can get you to see what I’m pointing at, can I then use the same similes and metaphors to confuse things and diminish the entire thing back down to a trite GraphJam entry?
Only one way to find out, I guess.
So anyway, being an artist by profession, I have an appreciation for color that perhaps my non-creative friends lack. Nevertheless, most people who see the above image would take note, albeit to varying degrees, of what could potentially be the most significant aspect of the illustration: that the hues change tint as they overlap. Oh sure, it’s done primarily to distinguish the individual circles while avoiding the clutter of each circle having a black stroke around it. But if we’re willing to assume a respectable level of intelligence for the graphic artist, we can very easily contrive some other, more important symbolism in this design.
For example, considering the person’s artistic nature, we can decide that the three circles are a subliminal color-mixing palette. Voila! Instant Philosophical Proposition! We are now conveniently positioned to make the symbol represent whatever we want simply by piously stating, “The final question is this: do you see God as additive or subtractive?”
The beautiful cleverness of this is that we’ve now opened up the argument for what defines something as additive and what makes something subtractive. Further applying these parameters to an omnipotent being keeps the idea immortal by giving rise to mutually exclusive factions, each with its own specialized and unequivocal interpretation of the image.
The Three-Circle Purists say the underlying message merely reinforces the graphic’s original idea that God is the culmination of all monstrosities to the point of becoming the blackest monster of them all. They refer to the very manner in which the tints darken as they progress towards Jesus Christ as their evidence. Declaring him to be a subtractive deity, they give God the name “Simmik” (spelled cmyk) and dub him the Bringer of Blackness.
The Paradoxicals, however, insist that the diagram represents Jesus’ tendency to spend the majority of his ministry in the presence of the most misguided, baleful sinners and that the choice of colors is intended as a subtle testament to that necessary irony. They claim repeatedly – almost to the point of recitation – that it is light from which God and all good things are born and thus, just like light, God must be additive. To them, the completeness of God results in a clean, perfect whiteness. He is given the title “Regrebloo the Pure”. Countless hymns are composed rejoicing in the promise of that glorious day when all colors will come together to form the most perfect White.
Of course, the cynical 3-CPs are all over that with shouts of racism and accusations of a religiously driven eugenic agenda. Science fiction novels begin to be regularly presented as oracular tomes. PK Dick and Isaac Asimov become revered as great prophets.
The Doxies then issue a collective sardonic snort by taking out full-page ads and erecting billboards likening fundamentalist 3-C doctrine to that of the Church of Scientology, citing as fact the very arguable notion that L. Ron Hubbard was also a science fiction author. This campaign fails miserably, however, as does their droll attempt to humiliate their adversaries by referring to them as “C-3POs”.
The battle rages for decades. Nonsensical self-help books emerge with titles like I, Robot. U Can’t Subtract! and Paradoxicals Do It With Guile. Passion becomes petulance and devotion turns into duress. A purist menacingly holds a 2x4 like a baseball bat and a doxie pulls his handgun…
Then, only after countless lives have been lost to the argument, does the illustration’s creator (by now aged 106) finally issue a public statement declaring that he is, in point of fact, completely colorblind.
And just like that, the sum of time and energy dedicated to either side of the debate is fully devalued. All the stock placed in both ideals is instantly obliterated. Every measure of strength and motivation imbued by the conflict is just as effectively depleted.
There was really never anything more to the illustration than an insensitive jape…
…right?
*In fact, some people actually like that sort of thing. I simply provide a service – an abrasive but oddly arousing service. So do hookers, but unlike a prostitute, I service you free of charge.
“What you need is a vacation.”
Sixty-fifth Assistant glanced at his boss through the corner of his eye, sneaking a peek at the boss’s reaction to his suggestion. Noting with no small amount of relief that the boss was still sitting calmly behind his desk, he dared to add: “Perhaps somewhere near Capricus Prime or the Wormhole.”
“No, no, no!” The boss coughed, then spat a glob of what looked like tapioca pudding into a chrome receptacle designed expressly for the purpose of collecting just such disgusting things.
“My apologies, sir, I only–“
“Vacations are too intense,” the boss croaked. “Too much to do. I need peace and quiet. I need to relax. A vacation, my dear Sixty-fifth Assistant, is the last thing I need!”
“But sir, certainly a cruise through the Gossamer Nebula would be far more relaxing than your average day running this prison.”
The boss lit a cigar. Blue smoke enveloped his massive, horned head as he considered Sixty-fifth Assistant’s logic. Finally he said, “Either something is relaxing or it isn’t. Running this psychotic zoo isn’t relaxing and neither is a nebula cruise.”
“But a cruise is less stressful than–“
“Degrees of relaxation are irrelevant!”
“But–“
“Have you ever been on a cruise through the Gossamer Nebula?”
“Well, no, sir. I never earned enough to afford such a–“
“Then how do you know if it’s relaxing?”
“Well, I had to assume that if people were willing to pay that kind of money to–“
“When you assume, you make an ass out of yourself. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?” The boss looked sardonically down his lumpy nose at his assistant.
“Out of you and me.”
“What!?” The boss spat another milky glob into the receptacle. A small amount of lumpy spittle snapped back and stuck to his upper lip. He failed to notice.
“Well, I always heard it was when you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” said Sixty-fifth assistant, trying very hard not to look at the disgusting goop clinging to the boss’s face. “It’s a play on the spelling of–”
“Are you saying that I’m an ass because you assumed something?” The goopy glob jiggled as the boss spoke.
“No, sir, I just meant–“
“Because I’m your superior, I’m automatically implicated in all of your screw-ups, is that it?”
“That’s ridiculous. I was only–“
“Oh! So now I’m ridiculous!” The boss was so enraged and tense that his head started to shake.
The vibration shook the glossy spittle and before he could stop himself, Sixty-fifth Assistant heard himself shouting, “Well, yes! Yes you are! With that dollop of what I hope is only phlegm on your face, you do look quite ridiculous!”
The boss leapt to his feet, his face turning from gray to puce in an instant. He snatched an object from his desk that looked a lot like a pocket calculator except that it had about ten times as many buttons. He pressed one of the buttons -- the triangle-shaped one -- and a collar around Sixty-fifth Assistant’s neck suddenly started to hum. Sixty-fifth Assistant made a squeaky noise, a little red light blinked on the collar, and an instant later the collar fell to the floor as its wearer was replaced by a column of mist that smelled remarkably like a combination of curry and rotten cucumbers.
The boss slumped back into his chair with a disgruntled sigh. After he had finished his cigar and the mist that was once his assistant had finally dissipated, he dialed an extension into the prison intercom. The voice of a clerk in the human resources department politely acknowledged him.
“Yes, yes, good afternoon. This is Warden Magalug.” He was still trying to calm down and he chose his words very carefully. “It appears I am in need of an assistant.”
“What happened to the one we sent up last week?” inquired the clerk.
“Well, er, you see…” Magalug paused. He knew he needed to word things just right or else being denied another assistant would be the least of his worries. Even though assistants were just inmates who happened to be on good behavior and thus allowed to work in the office rather than the dung vats, the human resources department frowned upon vaporizing them in a fit of rage. Once you had burned through your first fifty, they kept a pretty close eye on you. “Well, he… that is to say, I…”
“The system indicates his appliance was activated.”
“Well, yes, it was.” Appliance, thought Magalug. Heh, heh, I’ve always loved that one.
“What was the reason for activation?”
“He tried to escape.”
“Escape? Really?”
“Why, uh, yes, yes indeed. He, uh…” This was going to be tricky. Magalug did not consider himself a very skilled liar. “He was doing the vacuuming, you see, and he was vacuuming behind my desk, okay, and I was very busy at my work, right?”
“How did he try to escape, Warden?” The clerk’s tone was crisp.
“Well, I was very busy, you see, and I didn’t realize… that is… he threw the cord around my neck and I was quite fortunate to have gotten hold of my activator before he was able to kill me!”
“I see. Do you need a physician sent up?”
“No, no. Just another assistant. I’ll be fine.”
“But you just said you were lucky to have escaped death.”
“Yes, but, you know, we Sloggians are, well, very resilient. Heal up quick. I shouldn’t need to take up a physician’s valuable time.” Had his species been capabale of perspiration, beads of sweat would definitely have been covering Magalug’s forehead.
“Very well, suit yourself, Warden. I shall log this under code 321-V: Vaporization Due To Violent Escape Attempt. Your new assistant will be up shortly.”
Magalug switched off the intercom. He sat at his desk, staring at the ashtray his niece had made for him in her taxidermy class. He tried to recall just exactly what it was that Sixty-fifth Assistant had said that had gotten him so upset. But, for the life of him, he simply couldn’t remember.
There was a knock at his office door. Magalug stood up and walked around to the front of his desk as Sixty-sixth Assistant walked in.
“Greetings, Sixty-sixth Assistant,” said Magalug, “I’m sure you’ll find working for me much less torturous than those disgusting dung vats.”
“Perhaps,” replied Sixty-sixth Assistant. “But since we’re on the subject of disgusting things, I might mention that you have a little something on your lip.”
