Computer Terms Illustrated #22

It seems that even the simplest terms sometimes need a thorough explanation, sigh.

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Flying Killer Monkeys From Hell

I've had to put my first movie script on hold for the moment, as Orlando Bloom has been too busy to return any of my 200 phone calls. Never mind; I've already had an idea for a sequel, and eagle-eyed readers will have noticed that this time I've come up with the title first!

We rejoin the tale one year after the first film ends. In a devastated Earth, the tattered remnants of humanity try to rebuild civilisation, but there are too few
survivors left after the mayhem caused by those pesky brain-eating zombies.

Working feverishly in a lab based in Hawaii (to get away from the zombies), with sweat from the tropical heat (and global warming, obv.) dripping down her front, Doctor Salma Hayek has genetically engineered a troop of flying monkeys¹.

These airborne anthropods (so I used a thesaurus, so sue me) have been trained to perform all the menial tasks so that the scientists can get on with the real work of destroying the zombies and putting the world to rights; simple-minded jobs like fruit-pickers, street-sweepers, taxi-drivers, database programmers, drummers and England rugby players (*ducks*).

At first, the results look promising - the new working class is literally prepared to work for peanuts. But then disaster strikes! El Nino brings an early monsoon, the world peanut harvest is decimated and starving monkeys run fly amok.

In a desperate effort to save the world, bigger, more ferocious langurs are trained to attack the original, smaller macaques and keep them under control...

Nah, come on, who would swallow a story as far-fetched as killer monkeys? That's just preposterous!

¹ You may ask why they need to be flying monkeys - the reason is, of course, that the title would make no sense otherwise. It's too late to change it now: deal with it.

Mr Farty's Sci-Fi Script Idea

Let me try this on you before I take it to Hollywood. See what you think and no blabbing to Warner Bros!

The world is going to hell in a handcart - too many people, not enough resources, rampant pollution, global warming, people eating endangered animals out of house and home, people eating endangered animals, period. (Did I mention it's set in the present day?) Something Must Be Done.

Then a young, brilliant scientist, who looks remarkably like Orlando Bloom, has an ingenious idea. He does some preparatory work, then takes his proposal to a team of venture capitalists and they are, for a change, wildly enthusiastic.

Here's his pitch:

Everyone knows that computers are doubling in capacity every 18 months. At some time in the not-too-distant future, they will have the equivalent processing power of a human brain. Well, that time has now arrived!

<commercial>

You too can live forever!

Are you feeling old, decrepit, dying from some terrible disease or simply tired of living in this godforsaken hell-hole? (Earth, you dummy! Do try to keep up!)

Sign up now and have your thoughts, your memories, even your feelings stored in cyberspace - for all of eternity!

Free from all shortcomings of the flesh, your mind can race around the world at the speed of light itself!

Give yourself virtual organs that you could never have in "real life". You want a lizard tail? You've got it! Green skin? No problem! Gills? Sure, why not?

All we need to do is scan the contents of your brain and upload your personality into our mainframe - for free*!

*Small print: The scanning process is irreversible and destructive. Clients' brains become the property of New Life, Inc.

</commercial>

Some customers have already joined up. Their worn-out bodies have been recycled as bio-diesel, but their minds are out there on the super-information highway. Friends and families are able to "talk" with their loved ones simply by logging into chat-rooms and typing away. Two-way webcam links are just around the corner, after a few teething troubles have been ironed out.

Like the fact that the whole thing is a scam.

The "uploaded" are in fact nothing but sophisticated chat-bots, set up to tempt the unwary into putting themselves into the clutches of a ruthless cabal, an unholy alliance of mad scientists and businessmen, intent on subjecting as many humans as possible to voluntary euthanasia.

Massive worldwide advertising campaigns show willing victims queuing up to enter the conversion booths, where their brains are extracted, "scanned" and uploaded onto supercomputers (dressed-up PSPs). The corpses are shown being fed into recycling plants (but actually used as landfill), while the brains are secretly puréed and marketed as tasty, nutritious soup. Mmmm, rich in omega-three fatty acids!

It all starts to go horribly wrong when the consumers who drink the soup start turning into brain-eating zombies and run amok...
I'll probly have to throw in a few aliens and that to keep the special effects bods happy, obv. But I think my totally original and not at all stolen from anyone else idea is a winner.





Innit?


Update: WTF am I thinking? I need a title, guys! Help! I'll cut you in on the profits...

Serpentes on a Shippe!

Just read this: Serpentes on a Shippe!

Thanks to Lucy WithaY.

Dougal

I once knew a girl called Dougal. No, really. That wasn't her real name, obviously, but it's what she got called. She reckoned it was because of her long, uncontrollable, frizzy hair - like the dog in the Magic Roundabout. People can be so cruel...


One year The Discworld came to Embra. Again. I'd seen a production of Wyrd Sisters that made me Laff My Arse Off, as they say on t'internet, so when I heard that Guards! Guards! was to be staged with Paul Darrow (Avon off Blake's Seven) as Captain Vimes, I was sold. Mrs Farty wasn't interested in "that sci-fi stuff", so I asked around and Dougal said she'd quite like to go.


The first act has gone well, with several in-jokes for people who have read the books but also a good storyline for first-timers. Vimes, I have to say, was pure dead brilliant. Then comes the interval and off we go to the bar to discuss our thoughts on the play so far.


Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dougal fidgeting uncomfortably with her drink. I glance down and notice, for the first time, that the fingers on her right hand are, er, missing. She just has little stumps where they ought to be. Still, she seems to be coping ok, so I figure she must be used to it and carry on chatting. Then the bell rings for the second act and in we go...


Cut to two or three weeks later. I bump into Dougal again and she tells me she's hooked up with a bloke she's met off t'internet. From her description he seems to be quite a nice chap, despite being French. She's going over to visit him in person, as you do. And it's only now, when she's waving her hands about in excitement, that I notice her finger stubs again. Hang on - that's her left hand. Double-check - oh. Both hands. Well done. 2/10 for observation, Farty.


Fast forward six months. I've met Jean-Paul, and yes, he really is a very, very nice man. If it wasn't for the accent, you'd almost think he was Scotch. Dougal tells me he's proposed and shows me the ring. It is beautiful - a simple band of gold with a diamond inset. Except that it's a bracelet, of course. They're getting married in France and going to live in Romantic Paris.


Two years later. "Coo-ee! Farty!" It's Dougal. And Jean-Paul. In Safeway's. Embra. They have a buggy. I peer inside. A little person peers back at me. "This is Fifi. Isn't she lovely?"


I can't help it. I check the fingers. Ten. "Yes, she is. Cute." But she would still be lovely if she had taken after her mum. "So what happened to Paris?"


"It was horrible, just horrible. We really couldn't stand it. We stuck it out for as long as we could, but in the end we just gave up and came back home to Embra."


"Yes, but what exactly was wrong with Paris?"


"It was full of bloody Parisians. Even Jean-Paul hated it, and he's French!" We all laugh. It's a funny old world, innit?


I never did have the heart to tell her about where she really got her name, but I sometimes wonder if she knew all along?

Patron Of The Farts

Miss Tickle is trying to put on a Play, but needs to raise four thousand two hundred pounds in the next two weeks to do so. She has had the rather clever idea of selling words in the play at One British Pound each to finance the venture. I have already bought sparkling, but there are plenty more to choose from.

This is a very worthy cause. Please click here to see how it works.