by Jim Parnell

2000 Years!!!

...and All I Got was
This Stupid T-Shirt

So you think you're special, just by being around when the odometer rolled over to 2000, as if that mildly interesting number granted you some sort of historical significance without you doing much more than lift a line on an EKG.  That truly arbitrary number, which, by its shape alone seems to confer a mystical hoo-haw to the normal yattering of misinformation, blatant propaganda, and just plain ignorant media fog that surrounds the whole event -- ain't nothing but a number, and who's afraid of numbers?  Even bi-i-g, ro-o-ound ones?  You?

"Well," say the talking heads, vacuous eyes staring out of the tube in earnest concern, "the World Might End because of the (reverb here) Y2K bug-bug-ug-ug!"  I laugh every time I hear that, for a couple of reasons.  First thing that crosses my mind is that not a single program written -- no word processor, nor any CAD program or browser, no tax program (ulp!), no missile defense system, no real-time control for fly-by-wire airliners (yikes!), or even medical monitoring and life support equipment (arggh!) is without bugs.

Bubba's Law of Computer Inadequacy:  "No program ever written is bug free"

The other thing that cracks me up about Y2K is that the mouthpieces (see Heads, talking) know absolutely nothing about it.  Nor do most of you, but at least you're not standing there on national TV with your faces hanging out pretending that you do.  Even the supposed "science" reporters tell nothing of any value since their producers generally axe any informative material, deeming it too technical for the MVP's (moronic viewing public) to understand.  Yea verily, so do the uninformed stay that way.

The truth of the matter is that the Y2K bug is, for most of the areas where it could be a factor, a rather obscure and convoluted kind of failure mode for obsolete programs that are likely to go tumbling down in little pieces at the slightest touch anyway.  Picture, if you will, hundreds and hundreds of thousands of lines of gobbledy-gook code hacked to pieces by legions of scraggly-ass first and second-year co-ops during the sixties and seventies, taking lunch breaks of speed and phenobarbital, washed down by Jack Daniels and Scheaffer beer (at just eight bucks a case, what a deal!).  Such code has been patched so many times, there's nothing left of the original.  It's all spit and baling wire, with ratty old duct tape wrapped like a big yellow ribbon around the old oak tree!

You may not have noticed it, but that code has been crapping out for years.  Extended power outages, airport delays, telephone system failures -- they're all symptoms of aging code and hardware.  When it gets bad enough, the owners of the mess excise entire masses of it, like gangrenous limbs amputated to save the patient's life.  And guess what? It works better than before!   Of course that's not saying much, but what's one more little glitch, I ask you.

I'll put it on the line, here.  All this gabble about computer-related disaster at the millenium is just uninformed hype.  If it ain't, and the world ends by silicon, rather than fire and ice, I'll send each of you a dollar.  By electronic wire transfer, of course.

Then you've got the Revelationists, the Nostradamites, the Survivalists, and any of a million other wacko cults salivating like pervs at the prospect of the upcoming debacle.  Like they've got nothing better to do than croak.  Well, maybe they don't, but that doesn't mean the rest of us should have to listen to their fatalistic faerie tales.  God coming down and smiting the evil, then rewarding the good (read: Christians), followed by a thousand years of the Kingdom of Christ in which everybody gets to live in peace and harmony.

Well, maybe not everybody -- probably not them nasty A-rabs, or them dirty Hindoos.  It's an exclusive club, don't you know.  But it's easy to join.  All you've got to do is sign here on the dotted line, folks!  Accept Christ and the local Rotary Club will hand you the Keys to Heaven!  No need to worry about global warming!  Forget about acid rain and overpopulation -- hell, Armageddon's gonna take care of overpopulation!  Don't sweat it, dude!  Game over!

I think they're just deadbeats ducking out on the check.

No matter what happens, it should be a hell of a party.  I can only hope that you've got something memorable planned, but I have a feeling you'll be like me, sitting at home drinking cheap beer and eating pork rinds, 30 meters down in a kevlar-reinforced bomb shelter, watching the maniacs in Times Square shred each other just before the Russians nuke the Big Apple because their fire control systems won't work after 23:59:59, December 31st, 1999.

Geez, didn't anybody tell them they're allowed to spring forward?


For more on Up The Millenium, the entire boxed set is available on DVD and HTML at your local Scientology bookstore.  See also The Feat Death of the Universe at this fine retail outlet!

Squeal Like a Pig! -- Thought this might be one of the last comic opportunities I'll have with Clinton leaving office next year... Hey wait a minute, his term doesn't end until January, 2001!  So what are all those wonks doing running already...

Y2K Stote of the Disunion -- The man just can't keep his pants on...  OK, I've got a million of these.  So sue me.
It was a far cry from the previous addresses, but there was still a spark of life in the old horn-dog yet.  As he mounted the podium, the hallowed halls of Congress echoed with a chorus of cheers and catcalls, hurrahs and the thud of dead cats.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen,

The 2000 State of the Union Address

My fellow Americans, Democrat and - HAWK-TOOIE!- Republican, young and old, liberal and - SNAARF! - conservative, we stand at the threshold of a brave new millennium.  It is a time in which we reach out our hand to the next generation, making sure we use condoms even for non-sexual relations like one-sided oral stimulation, and it is a time to give up cigar smoking forever.  It is also a time to end the politics of slash and burn, unless you're damn well going to inhale.

In brief, my fellow Americans, or in boxers, we must follow our instincts for survival and perpetuation of the species.  We must call a spade a spade, a lie a lie, and a blue dress a Petri dish.  Head first into the 21st Century, and your other head will surely regret it later.

Not to pick a well-honed bone, an activity which is well known to Democrat and -WHOCK-TU!- Republican alike, we must now remove the cloud of suspicion and smoke from burning, shredded documents.  We must smite the legions of paid prevaricators!  We must destroy those that seek to air the dirty laundry behind the politics and shatter the illusion of high moral ideals by ending our complacent, blind, and comfortable tradition of denial.  In short, or in Speedos, we

MUST -- KILL -- KEN -- STARR !!!

(which I have authorized the Secret Service to do as soon as he can be located).  Aside from this teensy little glitch, the State of the Union is righteous, dudes and dudettes.  The stock market goes up and up and up, as the Republican voter rolls go down and down and down.

There is Justice in the Land.

As you know, the measure of a man is his actions, which speak louder than words, or even louder than cries of, "Faster!  Faster!"  Since this is the last time I will address this body in person, I have decided to address this body WITH my person.  All you Democrats close your eyes, now.  All -HACK- Republicans, you will now be mooned by the Presidential buttocks.

Ta-ta, and keep smiling!

Hmm.  A pretty picture indeed.

Grays vs. Slugs (or, Confused Musings on Causality) -- Even aliens have their little spats.  But they've got such cool gear...
The silent black helicopter hovered over the NJ industrial park.  It was dusk, but the parking lot was still full of cars as the employees labored furiously on in a mania of desperate futility.  Ohmm sneezed gobbets of blue slime.

"Geez, boss, that never happened before..." Flipper reared back in disgust.

"Id's jusd a code."  Just back from a rendezvous with the local representative from GRABS (GRay Aliens Benefit Society), Ohmm sniffed.  "Dose damn Grays.  Always grabbing sick humans from trailer parks and poking them in the butt.  Why don't they ever nab Harvard grads with up-to-date medical insurance?"

"High profile victims always complain.  Besides, who'd want to probe one of those Harvard assholes?"

"A Yaley, maybe?  Page 432, paragraph 17a of 'How to Get Ahead When You Don't Know Jack-Shit'.  Required reading, 1999 Yale curriculum."

Flipper leered at Ohmm, "And what did little Ms. Gray tell you?"

Ohmm stared at Flipper. "She said to lay off.  Those worm-ridden apes down there turn out to be their great-great-to-the-43217th grandmas and grandpas.  She said that if we take them out, they'll take us out."

Flipper gasped, "War?  They'd go to war over those baboons?"

Darkly contemplating the troublesome Grays, Ohmm nodded silently, then smiled.  If they wiped out humans in this time-space continuum, the Grays would never have a chance to evolve...

Better cover his cloaca on this one.  He cackled and hacked up a furball, then he set up an ansible-conference to Homeworld to bounce it up the food-chain to upper management.

On the surface of Mars, from their huge underground headquarters beneath the Giant Face, the Gray delegation trained their Alludium Q-34 Space Modulator on the far side of the moon.  The Slugs' swarming base filled the crosshairs as the balonium capacitors charged...

Yeow!  That's gonna leave a mark.  Cheers!

Double-Wide, Copyright © 1999 by Jim Parnell

Jim Parnell generates bugs for a living -- the ones that infest your computer.   In a demonstration of obvious mental deficiency, he plans to be on full life-support in a commercial airliner booking flights and making e-trades at 23:59:59, December 31, 1999.

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