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The Rude Mechanicals Find a Three-Letter Word for God


“What’s a twenty-two-letter word for a relativistic quantum field theory?” the Washing-Up wanted to know. 

It was a sleepy Gormsday off the western coast of Andromeda. The Washing-Up asked his question because he was doing the Times crossword puzzle.

There were three Rude Mechanicals. With the brains of the Six Million Dollar Mannequin, the astonishing strength of Buns of Steel, and whatever the pile of cookware called the Washing-Up was good for, they could accomplish any task, solve any problem. But today, the Mechanicals had nothing to do. When boredom sank in, you could expect more than a resulting funk. You could anticipate a depression with the gravitational heft of a minor black hole. The emanating gloom would make nearby asteroids weep.

The other Mechanicals had to do something, and fast.

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Posted in Scifi

Interspecies Crisis


I had warned him: If he followed me, I would be his only wife.
Arkkh! he said.
But he followed me.
And, when he followed me, he left all of his wives, his vast harem of elephant seal females, behind on the rocks.
On his body there was a proud network of marks: a record of his entanglements with rival (but lesser) males; a bloody price paid--and paid again--for the acquisition of so many consorts.
But he left them.
Because I was worth it.

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Posted in Scifi

Dear Aunty Stanky -- Thesaurus

Dear Aunty Stanky, I possess an extensive vocabulary, but I underutilize it in public because so few people have the capacity to comprehend me.  How can I best genetically modify the human race to properly apprehend my consummately perspicuous diction?

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Posted in Dear Aunty Stanky

Dear Aunty Stanky: Can't

Dear Aunt Stanky, Is vigilante justice ever morally permissible? And if so, when? In the shadows, anxiously awaiting your advice, -- I Can't Believe It's Not Batman Dear Can’t: DC called. They’re unhappy.  Very, very unhappy. Just look out for

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Posted in Dear Aunty Stanky

Final Truths


I squeezed into the circle to peer at the open box in Neb’s hand. It contained white tissue paper and a flat brown square. Its sweet smell was unfamiliar to me.

I gasped as I realized what the square must be. “Is that—”

“Chocolate!” Neb squealed. “Saros got it from some guy at school!”

Chocolate was contraband, of course. It had been illegal on Calyptra ever since scientists learned of its toxic effect on the local flora. Medicinal plants were Calyptra’s principal exports, and our government wasn’t about to jeopardize that cash cow. Its effects on the native fauna were not well studied, but apparently there had been some disturbing results there, too.

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Posted in Science Fiction News
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