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The Evil Scientist's Blog

Balloon scare tactics and a free cat to a good home...

Posted by Kristen Selleck on February 27, 2012 at 1:15 AM Comments comments (1)

During the past weekend, I've been on a writing jag.  Now please understand that prolifc wordsmithery like this does not often occur for evil scientists preoccupied with world domination.  We have a lot on our electromagnetic plates you know.

 

And in the process of writing, I do a lot of researching...okay I confess, a little on-topic internet surfing and a whole lot of following completely unrelated links through wikipedia.  Not important--the point is, I'm writing some creepy stuff over here.  A lot of it has to do with a very old cemetary that I've spent hours pouring over maps, pictures, reading through stories, etc.

 

Now when I finally hit the hay, it's usually in the wee hours of morning, a very dark and silent time in the house.  Everyone's asleep, you can hear breathing  and the faint buzz of the kitchen light, so you can picture it, very eerie and quiet like.

 

The past couple of nights, I'll turn out the lights and head upstairs.  I do my usual routine, poke my head in and check each of the boys and then tiptoe into the absolute blackout of my room, trying to be as stealthy as possible, because Shad normally wakes up if a spider scratches its ass in the next room.  The problem is this evil balloon the boys brought home a few days back:

 

Yes, that's the one.  It keeps scaring the crap out of me.  It's got a weight on one end and seems to move about the house on it's own--never in the same place twice.  The first night, I walked up the stairs in the dark poked my head into Liam's room, saw he was sleeping, turned around...and saw a dark shape floating in mid-air.

 

I squeaked, jumped backwards into Liam's room, flipped on the light, and realized that it was the stupid balloon.

 

Now you think I'd have to be pretty dim to make the same mistake twice.

 

But the next night, I'm about to go upstairs, when I glance down into the pitch black living room and see this glint of light reflect and vanish, like something had just moved.  So I take a deep breath, and walk down to the lower level, my hand on the wall ready to flick on the light, and as I'm squinting to see what it could be, I see this solid black shadow, floating, moving.  I gasp, flip on the light and....it's the damn stupid awful balloon, again.  Just floating there, turning very slowly because a heater turned on or something.

 

Won't make that mistake again, right?

 

Wrong.

 

Last night, I'm again walking up the stairs.  I check on both of the boys, and then walk in to the bathroom, deciding not to turn the light on.  Again I'm confronted with the dark, floating apparation, and for a half of a second, maybe less, my heartbeat speeds up.  Then I remember, ahhhh, the stupid balloon, you won't get me this time buddy.

 

At the exact moment, the dark shape plunges downward  and then pops up right in front of me, and I shriek and stumble backwards and as I'm trying not to fall on my rear, something attacks my foot viciously, and while whining, EEE! EEE!  EEE!  and trying to shake the evil attacker off my foot, I reach down to swat it off, and my hand hits...fur.

 

God, I hate that cat.  Just hate that cat.  She was hiding out in the dark bathroom, probably waiting for me.  She went after the balloon first and then my foot.  The only thing that saved her from being kicked into a wall was that I was still thinking logically enough to assume that the thing might turn around and attack me somwhere else, and in the dark, I wouldn't be able to see it coming. 

 

Loving and wonderful cat available to a good home.

 

The balloon has since lost it's string and is now stuck up on the kitchen ceiling, but the cat is still lurking somewhere...plotting, biding it's time.  I really wish I could sell the kids on the virtues of dog ownership.

 

Oh and by the way...Shad...mighty man, protector of the household and self-proclaimed light sleeper? Yeah... didn't even stir.  I'm being attacked by a balloon with bad intentions and a possesed cat and struggling and shrieking and he hears nothing.  Definitely thinking about getting a dog.

Return of the Evil Scientist!

Posted by Kristen Selleck on June 20, 2011 at 12:37 AM Comments comments (0)

What? You all know very well how busy the life of the world's most evil scientist is! 



My latest bid for WD (world domination, come on, keep up.) has hit a lull, so in the interm, here's something that's been bugging me:



OLD PEOPLE.



Yup, pretty much all of them.



Now I have a soft side (yeah, I'm probably exagerating a little, maybe a soft toe.)- so I'm not for euthanizing all of them, just the ones that climb into their massive land boats and troll down the highway at forty miles an hour with the top of their head just peeking over the steering wheel, floating slowly from lane to lane like they're the ball in the atari game pong.



Let's start by making old people take road tests every three years once they hit like, I dunno, what's old now? 65? And if we can't push that through- because we can't, let's face it, old people have to much time to vote-- then can we, at least, do what I've been suggesting for years and mount cattle pushers to the front of our cars?



"Ohhh, Hi there Grandpa.  So you think you're getting on the highway at a top speed of 25?  Not today. VRRRROOOOOOOM, SMASH.  See ya!"



My mini-van already has a death ray, I'm sure I could mount a nice after-market grandpa mover 4000 to it. Make that shit trendy too, chrome with some flames or skulls painted on it or something. Yeah.



and also... old people should stop smelling like sour dust, and wear jeans...and not chew with their mouths open. Some day this will be law.


I'm just kidding Gam-Gam.  You know I love you.



Sensory Deprivation Tank 'ed'...

Posted by Kristen Selleck on March 21, 2011 at 10:25 PM Comments comments (0)

Yes alright, I know, I know.  It's been awhile since I blogged.  I have a decent enough excuse - I just started a new job in a new lab, and there's a steep learning curve (aka, I now have duties in addition to pressing the start button on an analyzer.) Anyhow, I promised a few readers who knew what I've been up to as of late that I'd blog about it, so here goes:



So anyhow, you may not know that evil scientists have a certifying agency.  That's right, we all like to keep a long collection of random numbers and letters after our names and in order to do that, we have to hold certain certifications which involve us having to take online courses and go to conferences to earn these stupid little vouchers known as CE credits(I think it stands for Continuing Evil).  We even have to take these stupid little quizzes to show that we're retaining information.  Here's a sample question:


1. World Domination is _________

(a). Very important

(b). Not that important, there are still episodes of Family Guy I haven't seen on Hulu.

(c). All of the above.


You see what I mean?  Tricky, aren't they?  So there I am, completing a course on the history of evil science when I came across a chapter on John C. Lilly.  In a nutshell - dolphin communication, psychedelic drugs, aaaaaaaand... the study of the nature of consciousness using something called a sensory depravation or isolation tank.  Now sure, the idea of using dolphins as minions was intriguing, but what really threw me was the isolation tank.  Basically it's a big metal coffin that contains water super-saturated with epsom salt. (so anything would float in it.) You shut yourself in and float.  No light, no noise, and since you're floating, you really can't feel anything either,  If you've never seen Altered States, here's a visual for you:



okay, never freaking mind. This stupid blog program won't let me add a pic. (seriously i should just give up and go to wordpress... but i digress.) Just google it.  So John C. Lilly took a bunch of drugs and tripped out a bunch of times. (and another random tangent -  wouldnt it suck to be his research assistant?  You'd be standing there with a towel like "oh, you saw the cosmos. uh-huh. purple monkey spit dripping from the ceiling.  Sure I'm writing this down, just like I'm sure you'll remember this all tommorrow.")



I don't know what was so intriguing about this, but I had to try it (WITHOUT the massive amounts of LSD, or whatever the heck they were on.  I mean seriously, how is that science?  I'm going to go out on a limb here and say the drugs had more to do with your altered mental state then the isolation tank, Dr. Lilly.)  and it turns out there's a sensory dep. place not far from the house.  So I went. (but I took my best friend, because let's face it- It's a little creepy, right?)  Let me just tell you, the hardest part is working yourself up to close the door, because once you do, you're on your own.  Just naked in this pitch black little space filled with warm water.  For the first thirty or so minutes I'm floating, and I can't really relax because all I can think about is that this is all very comfortable.  So comfortable, and the water's warm and salty and what if... what if the person before me just took a leak or something?  What if the timer was broken, and I know the guy said that music was supposed to come on when your time's up... but what if mine doesn't work?  How freaking long have I been in here?  Is that a light?  It looks like a tiny dim light but it moves whenever I try to freaking look at it.  Like a damn firefly or something.  I'm freaking out.  Am I freaking out?  Oh God, I just stopped breathing.  There it goes again.  What if I'm asleep right now?  The guy said people fall asleep all the time, and it's okay, you won't drown or anything.  How do I know I'm not asleep right now?  I could be.  How long have I been in here?  I can't feel my body at all.  It's gone numb.  If I fart it'll be like a hot tub. A stinky hot tub. I should be, like, meditating or something.  Ohhhh gaaaa, my eye itches, but if I touch it it'll sting because of all the salt water.  I am not getting out.  I don't want to wuss out.  Meghan's probably over there in her tank all "ahhhhhhh... how relaxing." and if I get out I'll be a damn wuss. (By the way, Meghan's 8 months preggo and had to get out to pee like ten times and was sitting in her tank thinking pretty much the same thing.)  And then the music came on.  And it didn't seem like two hours.



So I dunno.  I guess everything is worth trying once, but I dont think I'll be making a repeat trip anytime soon.  Now, dolphin communication on the other hand...

WATCH OUT FOR THAT-- oh man, sorry about that particle beam, Anatoli.

Posted by Kristen Selleck on February 25, 2011 at 1:49 AM Comments comments (1)

Anatoli Bugorski-- proving that Russians are so effing hardcore that they will facebutt a particle beam.

 


This is just one of those wierd true things that you want to know about... trust me!

 


In 1978, soviet scientist Anatoli Bugorski was eating a taco bell beefy five-layer burrito, when a dollop of seasoned ground beef-like material and sour cream, dripped into the particle accelerator.  Thinking quickly, Anatoli stuck his head into the accelerator, (no, not really, he was checking some kind of failed mechanism).  What followed was later described by Anatoli as a 'flash brighter than a thousand suns' as the proton beam, traveling close to the speed of light, pierced through his face and out the back of his head.

 


Amazingly, he reported that he felt no pain.  He was taken to a clinic in Moscow so that doctors could observe his expected demise.  After absorbing (reportedly) several hundred times the amount of radiation it would take to kill a person, they expected the end to come quickly.  However, no one remembered to tell Anatoli to die, so instead of keeling over he got up and had a sandwich. He's still living.  And except for some seizures and a partial paralysis of his face, he still enjoys physics and taco bell.

 


This is all true, you can wiki it.  It may be hard to visualize how someone could stick their head in a particle accelerator, but it was Soviet Russia.  It was probably made out of refridgerator magnets and duct tape and powered by a monkey on a bicycle, so safety restrictors?  Forget about it, Vladimir.  

 


On an interesting sidenote, another effect of the accident was a bizarre change to his appearance.  When one looks directly at Mr. Bugorski, the right side of his face has the normal, wrinkled appearance of an elderly man, while the left side of his face is apparently 'frozen in time' and hasn't aged a day since the accident. 

 


Now I'm an evil scientist, so your line of thought might not travel the same direction as mine, but to me this poses several interesting scenarios.  First, we might finally be able to rid the world of Zombie Joan Rivers (we might be able to convince her to stick her face in a particle accelerator.  I mean so far, the survival rate is 100%, (we're one for one)) Second, what if we did convince Zombie Joan Rivers to stick her head in there, and instead of her head exploding, dying of radiation poisoning, or just gaining the ability to keep a youthful appearance without surgery-- what if she gained super powers?  What if she became a flying Joan Rivers with eyes that shot lazers?  Third, do you think the other scientists ever refered to him as Two-face?  "Holy Sputnik, someone call Batman, Two-face has escaped Arkham Asylum again and-- ohhhhh, snap, sorry Anatoli."

 


At any rate, it's another interesting tidbit that you can bring out at random times to impress less informed people.

Evil is Genetic

Posted by Kristen Selleck on February 13, 2011 at 1:58 PM Comments comments (1)


"Why are you looking at me??  You know, I am really getting sick of the fact that every time a cat gets sacrificed around here, everyone automatically assumes its my fault."



Like many mothers, evil or otherwise, I have this unexplainable desire to make sure that my son's teacher recognizes him for the unmitigated genius that he is.  And, perhaps, like many children, my son's top priority in life seems to be to thawt me in acheiving my aims.


At first I decided that this would require little to no effort on my part.  Since Drake is a genius and she is a teacher, the recognition would be natural and easy.  Not so.  But I did not realize this until the first parent-teacher conference.  I should have known something was wrong.  Drake asked me why he was not going to school that day, and I explained that the children got to stay home so that the parents could attend conferences with the teachers.  he then demanded that I explain what a 'conference' was, and when I did, he became visibly nervous.


"i don't like this," he decided.  "I don't want you go to parent-teacher nonsense."


I assured him that there was nothing to worry about, and even told him that he was welcome to come along, which he opted to do.  What followed was like waking up in a bed full of cold dead fish-- shocking and uncomfortable.  The teacher told me that my son had a problem with listening and ran his mouth almost constantly.  She told me that he didn't have the ability to use sissors, and that out of 26 letters he could only identify four.  I was shocked up until this point, then a lightbulb clicked on.


One of my son's favorite things to do when bored is to get on my computer, bring up microsoft word and type dirty things on whatever story I'm working on.  So on a normal day, I'll be in the kitchen, and from downstairs I'll hear:


"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!  MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

"what now, offspring?"

"HOW DO YOU SPELL POOP?"

"p-o-o-p"

"TWO O's, MOM???"

"yes"

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!! MOOOOOOOM!"

"what?"

"HOW DO YOU SPELL BUTT?"


So I know that he knows his letters, I have physical proof that he can find and identify the letters P, O, B, U, T, F, A, R, and many others on a keyboard.  It turns out, that my son had discovered that if he says the magical words "I dunno", he would be left to his own devices.


"What letter is this?"

"I dunno."

"What about this one?"

"I dunno."

"You need to cut this out with sissors."

"I dunno how."

"What comes after the number four?"

"I dunno."


I tried to correct the misunderstanding, by explaining to her that our family has a long and proud history of evil and that even a boy of four, in our family, had the ability to use cunning or trickery to get what they want.  In this case- to not have to do stuff like answer questiojns or learn.


I don't think this was well-received.


So now Valentine's Day has come around, and my four-year-old has been busy making out his cards to his fellow classmates.  His writing skills are well enough.  He can write his name nicely if you sit next to him and prod him constantly to do it correctly.  But he just doesnt have the ability yet to write his name perfectly on all twenty-some valentines, and I wasnt going to make him.  On some he just wrote a "D', on others he got kind of Salvador Dali and made a large melting D on one side, and maybe a tiny R backwards floating up in the sky, and somewhere completely else an upside down K, and then he might throw a number in there, like say, '4' because he's four, so why not.  But I wan't stressing.  I just wanted him to write it nicely on his teacher's valentine.  Because, you see, I've given up trying to convince her that he is a genius, I just want her to believe that he isn't mentally impaired.


So finally there we are, the last one, his teacher's valentine.  I lay it out and explain that I would really like it if he would write his name nicely, because this one is for his teacher.  So let's do this, let's write Drake!  We start right here, on the far left side, so we'll have enough room.


Drake grips his pen, moves it to the center of the valentine, and slowly and deliberately makes a large round circle.


"What's this?" I ask patiently.

"An O," he says nonchalantly.

"There's no 'O' in Drake."

"I know, but O's are easy," he explains.


I sigh, and rub my forehead, but I'm not going to get upset.  It's okay, there's still enough room, we can still get Drake written on there correctly.


"Can you write your name now?" I ask nicely.

"Sure."

"Can you make your D, right here?"

"I can."


He then proceeds to make a giant capital letter T.


"What's that?"

"It's a T."

"There's no T in Drake."

"I know that.  I just really like T's."

"Okay, fine.  Can you make a D now?!?"

"Nope," He holds the pen up and then drops it dramatically on the table, "I'm done."


To underscore his point, he gets up from the table and walks away.  So his teacher recieved a lovely valentine's card from a student identified only as "OT".  Touche, Drake.  You may have taken this round-- but I'm older and I've had more time to perfect my craft.  I will win the war.

Bed, Bath, and Be QUIET AND LET ME SHOP!

Posted by Kristen Selleck on February 5, 2011 at 1:00 PM Comments comments (1)


Being both a female and an evil scientist places me in a very, very minority category of an already minority group.  Let's just be honest here, men have really had the market cornered on evil genius for about as long as... well... ever.  Every bit of headway I've made in the 'gaining street cred' department with my male counterparts has been hard-earned.


So you can understand why I might be hesitant to do anything that might destroy the little bit of respect I've managed to gain.  For instance, I wouldn't suggest evil secret santas or send anyone forwards of cute kittens that have captions under them refering to the kitten wanting 'cheezburgers'.  And I most certainly wouldn't admit to a penchant for knick-knack shopping.


Which is why I've got to blow off a little steam here instead of to my peers.  Having been off work for a few days, due to heavy snow (Thanks, top secret weather machine!), I was awake in the daytime.  As this doesn't often occur, I thought it might be a good time to find a few knick-knacks and a nice set of wall sconces for the lair.  I took the Deathvan to Bed, Bath, and Beyond.


I walked in the door, and was immediately assulted by a cheerful retail-minion... I think Bed, Bath, and Beyond calls them 'sales associate' or some such nonsense.  I had literally just stepped through the doors and the retail-minion was already asking if I needed help finding 'anything'.  No. 


I kept walking.  Another retail-minion, who looked essentially the same as the first one, stepped out from behind a display of ultra-modern-looking toilet brushes.  "Can I help you find..." NO! 


I kept walking.  Another one of these clones threw back the covers of the display bed where she'd been hiding, and aggressively demanded to know if I needed any help.   For the love of God, NO! 


At this point I stopped to pick up an attractive handtowel for the guest bath.  I was carrying this when another minion came from... to be honest, I didn't notice where this one came from.  I suspect she might have rapelled down from the ceiling.  She wanted to know if I needed a cart.  For what... the handtowel?  Did I appear to be struggling to lift the weight of it?  Or maybe I looked as though I were so dumb that I didn't know that stores had things like carts, which is why I didn't think to stop and get one.  I shook my head and she then wanted to know if I need help finding anything. >sigh< no.


I was likewise assulted four more times before leaving the store.  After the fifth time, I didn't even bother answering, just began laughing maniacally.  Now, I realize that I didn't brush my hair this morning,  (okay, I never do ANY morning, did I mention the whole I'm-an-evil-scientist thing?), and I may have been wearing a lab coat and rubber gloves, but I don't think I should be treated any different from any other customer.  And that's what I think was really going on there.  I think they kept asking because I didn't look like I 'belonged' in a Bed, Bath, and Beyond... so I must have been lost or something.


I feel discriminated against.  And discrimination is definately evil.  Nice Job, Bed, Bath, and Beyond!  Not as evil as Walmart, but keep it up and you'll get there.  (Also, please stock a better selection of wall sconces, as the ones you currently have are all crap.)