Thursday, May 9, 2019

Where's the hate? A guide to the WA senate, 2019

So I voted early in the Federal election. It took me several minutes to identify and shuffle all the hate parties into last place on the WA senate form, and despite some research beforehand there were still a few I wasn't sure about. Here's a potted guide on the 'above the line' parties, and my thoughts on who to put last if you can't remember who's been on TV talking about Final Solutions. In ballot paper order:

Pauline Hanson's One Nation: No burkhas, except in Parliament. No foreign money in Australian politics, except $20M for One Nation so megacorporations can give our laws a nudge in their favour. Family values, which to them means telling strippers to dish out lap dances to old married white guys in One Nation. LAST.
Involuntary Medical Objectors: AKA the 'Polio First party'. Anti-vax. LAST
Liberal Party: you know these guys
The Greens: Trees, environment, taxes, social justice, climate change. Sing along if you know the chorus
Fraser Anning's Conservative national Party: Basically the pigs in Animal Farm. No Muslims, blacks, gays, Jews, freedom or other political parties. Ten minutes after seizing power, Blair Cottrell's at your door with the Brute Squad, asking if you would like to change your vote now or at the re-education spa on Manus. LAST
Pirate Party: Lots of policies, but big on freedom, transparency, drug decriminalisation and broadband. They're basically Lib Dems, but ACTUAL Lib Dems, not Leyonhjelms.
Labor Party: you know these guys
Western Australia Party: Some guys saying WA should keep all its GST, move federal agencies over here and just generally get a bigger share of federal money (i.e. all of it).
United Australia Party: Clive Palmer's latest scam. We've been here before: vote for this guy and you're basically voting for whatever random takes over when he gets bored and quits to make more fibreglass dinosaurs.
Help End Marijuana Prohibition Party: It's on the tin.
Australian Christians: 'Judeo-Christian values'. No porn, adultery, abortion, gays etc etc. Not sure where they send gays, adulterers etc, but I guess Manus?
Animal Justice Party: they want to protect kangaroos. All of them. I dunno, good if you really like kangaroos?
Australian Conservatives: Cory Bernardi and his Christian intolerance posse. They also like negative gearing, because young people don't want houses. Thank you, off you trot. LAST
Liberal Democrats: Interesting ideas, seemingly advocated by people who don't really believe them. Might have been good, but they went full Leyonhjelm.
Citizens’ Electoral Council: High speed rail between all capitals, nuclear instead of renewables, moratorium on mortgage foreclosures. Also, yeah, nationalise all natural resources. Maybe a tad ambitious
Shooters, Fishers and Farmers: Guns, garfish and grain I guess? Broadly conservative? Support ‘offshore processing for “illegal migrants”’, so maybe not just ‘broadly’ conservative. Don’t ask for their stance on same sex marriage, climate change or animal rights; good chance you might get to see what's under the 'I shoot and I vote' sticker.
Socialist Alliance: Like it says. Tired of being told to move to Venezuela. Enthusiastic, but kinda in denial about the inevitability of the Revolution. Perpetual optimists; worth a sympathy vote.
Great Australia Party: A handful of hopefuls limpeting on to what’s left of Rod Culleton after bankruptcy, One Nation and the AEC chewed him up. Zero substance, but some amusing political pantomime in its recent past.
Yellow Vest Australia: AKA the ‘Let’s see if we can get in on name recognition’ party. The French Yellow Vests are working/middle class folks, angry at economic injustice. The Australian version? It’s the rebadged ‘Australian Liberty Alliance’, just another anti-Islam incel circle jerk. LAST.
Health Australia party: Not reeeally an anti-vax party, but they’re anti-fluoride, anti pesticide, and anti-EM. That last one? 'Phone towers and wifi leak deadly radiation'. Kinda goofball, but sorta nice. So yeah, no future in politics. No room for nice.
The Nationals: You know these guys. Family values, but 'family' redefined as ‘wife two kids, secret wife’.
Sustainable Australia Party: some sort of progressive egalitarian crew. Cheaper uni, less benefits for pollies, slower population growth.
Flux Party: an ambitious but (I think) incredibly dangerous party. Every vote in Parliament is put to the people to vote on individually, via whatever tech is necessary to make it feasible to directly ‘vote’ every day. We’re not ready.
Australian Mental Health party: More Newstart, cheaper health care, better mental health services, simpler tax system. It wouldn't be the weirdest possible outcome if one of these guys got a seat, but things might get silly if you asked for their stance on anything but the price of ADHD pills.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

A conversation with God.

“God.”
“Yup.”
“Like, THE God.”
“Uh huh.”
“Who created the universe.”
“Well, I don’t like to brag.”
“Hm. You, uh, you understand I’m struggling with this.”
“Well, it’s a lot to take in.”
“Yeah, kinda. I mean, my entire world view proved wrong.”
“Not necessarily. What part did I play in your life?”
“Well…none really. I argued against your existence a bit, I scoffed at people who dedicated their life to you, and I tried to understand the theories that explained the universe in your absence. But I’d pretty much convinced myself you didn’t exist.”
“And if you’d known about me? What would you have done differently?”
“Probably wouldn’t have carved my initials in the pews when my folks dragged me to church I guess.”
“A bit of graffiti? You think that made me sad?”
“More the implied disrespect I suppose.”
“Meh. Regardless, hardly a significant life change. What else you got?”
“I…might have prayed I guess? Asked you for help, for guidance, for…whatever people pray for?”
“Huh. Mostly it’s lotto numbers, sports wins and avoiding punishments. Usually deserved. Not exactly edifying stuff. Any of that on your shopping list?”
“Not really. I don’t do lotto or sports. And it’s been a while since I’ve done anything that warranted punishment.”
“Maybe that means I was watching over you.”
“Or that I’m inherently good.”
“Maybe that’s the same thing.”
“Well that’s a circular argument. ‘I’m good because God watches over me, and God watches over me because I’m good.’ I mean, if we take you out of the equation, what changes?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“Look, if you’re going to talk in cat posters and fake Buddha quotes we may as well wrap this up.”
“Okay, okay. So where were we…right, ‘take me out of the equation and nothing changes’. Based on that, should you take me out of the equation?”
“A little tricky now. You’ve kinda shown your hand. You can’t exactly UNreveal yourself.”
“Sure I can. I’m God.”
“Oh yeah. Actually…look, for the sake of my own peace of mind, can you answer a couple of things?”
“Shoot.”
“The Bible. Job. And Abraham. And those kids who got killed by bears for calling some guy ‘baldie’. What’s that all about?”
“Ah. Literal interpretation of scripture. Never a good idea. Don’t worry, none of that stuff really happened..”
“But isn’t this your book? Your story? Why would you let people believe this stuff?”
“Look, I know. It’s tricky to get your head around. But you guys needed that stuff at the time. Prophets and preachers and peaceniks touring the countryside tended to get robbed and killed a lot, so talk of a vengeful deity protecting them from harsh language was one way to make the bandits think twice. It didn’t always work; a lot of the early guys ended up on the pointy end of a rusty sword. But it worked well enough. The message got out.”
“Huh. Okay. Nice to know there was no Job I guess. Uh, what were we talking about?”
“You asked whether taking me out of the equation made any difference.”
“Oh yeah. So if you disappear now, does anything change? You say I’m good because you watch over me, and you watch over me because I’m good. If you weren’t here, would I still be good? Or would I instantly and inexplicably turn into some kind of monster?”
“What do you think?’
“How did I know you were going to say that? Well, you don’t interact with me at all. And prior to now I didn’t know you existed. So if you are actually affecting my actions, it has to be through some sort of completely invisible…I dunno, God radiation or something.”
“Nope. Not happening. You’re on the wrong track.”
“Okay…so you’re saying you literally don’t affect my life at all. My surroundings? Do you hide things that might tempt me to sin? Yeah, scratch that; I know you don’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t have…”
“Yes, thank you, this will proceed much more smoothly without details of your minor sexual dalliances. To answer your questions, no. I don’t hide the lolly jar when you walk in the room. I don’t do anything that might affect your behaviour.”
“Really? Anything at all?”
“Nope. Sorry. All your own fault.”
“Wow. Well in that case, your non-existence makes no difference at all.”
“Correct. So what do you make of enormous millennial socio-political institutions built and sustained to honour and worship me?”
“Well…is it actually you they’re honouring?”
“Ah, you’re making progress. Go on.”
“I mean, you’re God. But did they know that? Was it you they had in mind when they built churches, wrote books, preached from mountain tops or whatever?”
“Does it matter if it was?”
“Look, I’ll drop the references to past sexual indiscretions if you’ll quit it with the ‘answering questions with questions’. Deal?”
“No promises. I move in mysterious ways you know. But okay, I’ll give you a do-over on that last one. Was it me they had in mind? Sort of yes, sort of no.”
“Well how is that answer any better!?”
“Gimme a minute. Sort of yes: they had a divine, all-powerful being in mind, someone in every respect indistinguishable from me in terms of capability. Sort of no: their guy was clannish, vengeful, petty and cruel.”
“So basically you on a really bad day.”
“Even on my worst day I wouldn’t tell anyone to murder their son, or kill forty two kids for calling one of my crew ‘baldy’.”
“Hm. Feels like a solid ‘no’ to me.”
“Except that brings us back around to my first answer. Did it matter if it was?”
“Well, of course it did! I’d be pretty cranky if I built a temple to a non-existent god!”
“What if that temple was a good place to hide when it rained?”
“I would’ve built a  gym, or a school instead! Just as good at keeping my sandals dry, but all that money on bibles and pews and pulpits could go towards text books and a rowing machine.”
“Good point. But do you think you could convince people to build it?”
“Sure, once they were sick of getting rained on.”
“You know better. They’d build their own little huts, and not let anyone else in.”
“They…hm.”
“Sounds like you’re getting it.”
“So…faith as a unifying force. It doesn’t matter what they believe in, so long as they all believe in it. That sort of thing?”
“Ding, prize from the third shelf.”
“Huh. But…”
“Still troubles you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. A lot. All that work, all that effort, all that passion. All built on a lie.”
“Not a lie. A misunderstanding.”
“The god they believed in didn’t exist!”
“A reasonable facsimile did.”
“They didn’t know that.”
“They still built the temple. And it still kept them dry when it rained.”
“But it answers my question, doesn’t it?”
“Which one?”
“About whether your existence matters or not. It doesn’t, at all. Does it?”
“Not a jot.”
“Hooboy. You’re saying the existence of god is irrelevant to religion.”
“Not to all religions. The ones that evolved with an endpoint, or a promise of proof, all of them fell by the wayside when they failed to deliver. My non-existence, or non-involvement, was the end of them.”
“So you mean all those cults that promised ascension, a ride on a comet, an apocalypse that only they would survive, they failed because they all pegged a date? Because when it rolled around and nobody was eaten by flying scorpions or whatever, they lost their tax-exempt status?”
“Yup. They did the same thing as the big religions;  they brought people together to build temples, but they had a built-in self-destruct that triggered the moment they had to show their hand. The ones that lasted were the ones that, perhaps accidentally, forgot to put in a Use By date. And they’re still around now.”
“The rapture? The second coming?”
“Nice and speculative. Could happen tomorrow, could happen in a thousand years. No clear dates, so no risk of failure.”
“But…all the things they’ve done; the wars, the inquisitions, the pogroms. People said they were acting on your behalf, on your instructions when they did these things.”
“Hm, that did get a bit much. But if it hadn’t been Me then it would’ve been some other excuse. None of those things were really about Me. I promise you, I didn’t speak to ANY of those idiots, I didn’t tell ANYONE to put their enemies to the sword. I was just a convenient excuse to deal with some troublemakers, and if it hadn’t been the way the enemy talked about Me, then it would have been the colour of their skin, the way they wore their hats or how they ate their boiled eggs.”
“And it doesn’t annoy you that people still take your name in vain? Or claim to do things in your name?”
“Meh. I’m God. Some clown fleecing a passel of dunderheads who think cash is the way into My Kingdom is hardly a blip compared to what I’ve done. Seriously, I wiped out the world with a flood.”
“Yeah, hang on. You said you didn’t do any of that stuff.”
“As far as they’re concerned I did; every callous, violent bit of it. In their world view, they’re paying money to get in good with a being who’d turn people into pillars of salt for being curious. They deserve to be fleeced by a lying douche in a cheap suit.”
“Huh. So all of it, all of religion, it all just sort of…happened. It was just lots of humans over a very long time doing their thing. No plans, no guidance from above; just human nature.”
“Yup.”
“Not through design, nor through the divine.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks, I liked it.”
“So. Now you know I’m real, what are you going to do different?”
“Me? Well…”
“Anything. One thing.”
“It occurs to me you already know what I’ll say. So why ask?”
“Because it helps you if you think it through.”
“I don’t…wait, it ‘helps’? Are you…”
“Ah. Did you just have a Revelation?”
“Nice.”
“Thanks, I liked it. You were saying…?”
“What…oh. You just said you’re doing something because it helps. Are you trying to help me?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So…you’re trying to help me by getting me to think about whether your existence matters?”
“Yup.”
“Even though you said you don’t – and won’t - affect my life in any meaningful way.”
“Right again.”
“But…you can help me because, ah, because it doesn’t matter whether you exist or not; just thinking through how your existence…”
“Or otherwise…”
“…how your existence, or otherwise, affects me, is beneficial.”
“Bam, there it is. The purpose of Me.”
“And whether I decide you exist…”
“…and go on to start a religion that organises and protects humanity through its pre-Enlightenment adolescence…”
“…or I decide you don’t…”
“…and go on to rescue humanity from the grip of an anachronistic cult that’s served its purpose…”
“…I’ve benefited either way.”
“Aaand that’s a wrap. Purpose of Me in one sentence. Well done. Took most of civilisation two thousand years to get where you just got. Now go forth and spread my word. Or deny it, depending on which way you jump. Good luck.”
“So it’s really that si…hey wait! Don’t go! There’s so much more I want to…

...dammit. I should have asked for the Lotto numbers first.”

Friday, November 7, 2014

Cricket and flamethrowers - a perfect match

Following an incident involving captain Aaron Finch at a Twenty20 game, Cricket Australia has decided to remove flamethrowers from the boundary.

Flamethrowers: natural enemy of the boundary fielder

“It’s a safety issue,” said Mike McKenna, Cricket Australia’s general manager and weaponsmith. “We want to give the fans the most exciting experience possible, but we also want to manage the risk of the players vanishing in a napalm inferno. It’s a judgement call in this case; Aaron Finch was at least a metre away from the flamethrower when it was triggered, so he was perfectly safe. Fairly safe. Well, we have his dental records, so it’s not like we wouldn’t have known it was him.”

Asked about the wisdom of placing military-grade ordnance in a space frequented by humans, mister McKenna was dismissive. “Look, the odds of players actually being reduced to smoking pyjama-wearing corpses is minimal. We want to give the fans the most exciting experience possible. And war is super exciting! Seriously, did you see ‘Saving Private Ryan?’ We want to bring something of the excitement of 1944 to the cricket-watching public.”

"The  visiting team's captain has won the toss and elected to field."


Mister McKenna did however concede that the a review of such features was warranted. “We’ll be looking closely all of our match-enhancing devices as a result of this incident. At this stage we’ll definitely be keeping the square leg minefields; they’re a real crowd-pleaser. Will he catch it? Will he drop it? Will he set off a bouncing betty that’ll take out half the slip cordon? Mortar fire during slow overs is staying too; we want to give bowlers every reason to keep up the pace, and hey, what better incentive than red-hot shrapnel from above, right!? The match committee is split fifty-fifty on some of the minor enhancers; we’ll have to wait until the next meeting to learn the fate of the spiked ball and laser bat. I'm confident though; we want to give the fans the most exciting experience possible.”

When asked if any features were definitely being removed, mister McKenna conceded they were. “We’re definitely getting rid of the pre-match cluster bombing runs on the outfield. Numbers through the turnstiles were a bit off after those two solid hits on the members’ stand last Sunday, so we’re listening to our customers and making the change. The timing wasn't great anyway; with a fair chunk of the air force off livening up local sporting events in Syria it was a bit tricky getting the planes. They navy offered to step in and provide long-range gunfire from the Harbour, but there are safety issues around that. Night matches would mean sailors working longer shifts, and the last thing we want is a fatigue-related manual handling incident.”

"Danger tape that missing barrier, able seaman Smith! Do you want to hurt someone?"

Faced with questions over why cricket was the only sport that needed such gimmicks to draw crowds, Mister McKenna attempted to terminate the interview, but launched into an exasperated rant when pressed. “We want to give fans the most exciting experience possible,” he said. “Attention spans are getting shorter and shorter; cricket’s had to go from week-long test matches in the ‘70s to these two-hour circus acts with all the dignity and style of a monster truck rally. It’s tough trying to get people to pay to see a world-class sporting event in between tweeting a picture of their brunch and posting a dozen #YOLO selfies from the night club toilets. We've already got people leaving well before security starts popping beach balls and capsicum-spraying the Mexican wavers! Getting punters through the gate meant either cutting the game to two overs each and an all-in cage fight, or…yeah, flamethrowers. I think we made the right call; sure, there might be a death or two, but that’s what the twelfth man is for.”

Mister McKenna emphatically denied rumours that wild animals would play a part in the upcoming One Day Internationals, adding that ‘some of the leopards were quite tame.’

I have no idea what this is. I got it when I Googled "Leopard cricket." The Internet's a weird place

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Is this the HR department?

"Is this the HR department?"
Four perfect hairstyles pivot like turrets and lock on. I have a brief Fembot moment, shake it off with a shudder, then my eyebrows stand on end as the power of their assessment radar sweeps over me. It takes them less than three seconds to determine that I am a) not their manager, b) not bearing chocolate, and c) probably going to ask them to do work. Consequently the answer comes as no surprise:

"No."

I glance at the "This is the HR department" sign stuck to the door, look back to them. Pretty brunette is already back on her iPhone. Pretty redhead is turning the volume back up on James Blunt. Token unattractive mousey one  looks confused at her colleagues' behaviour; she's new so the last traces of respect for human dignity are yet to be performance-managed out of her by the HR trainers. She's no good to me, so I look to pretty blonde one. Her eyes are glazed; she's already forgotten I'm here, and is letting her social autopilot handle the remains of the interaction.  She is halfway to forming a 'we value your business, please come back later' smile when I strike.

"I need to talk about a recruiting issue.."

The eyes refocus. We've done this dance before. Last time it ended in a bloody stalemate: her email address being forwarded to the "Bikers for Bitches" dating website, and the comments on my last performance review suddenly developing a nasty case of Tourette's just before it hit the CEO's desk. Open warfare has since cooled to 'wary respect'. But every time we talk it's still like juggling mouse traps.
She does the 'go on' gesture, glances at a spare chair. I sit, maintaining eye contact.
"My new sys admin ," I begin. "The ad went in two months ago. I was hoping to have someone by now.
Rolled eyes. "Yes, there were some problems with the ad."
"Mmm, I remember. My draft said 'This role reports to the IT supervisor.' When it went online, it said 'This role reports to a conceited buffoon.'"
Mock surprise. "Really? I wonder how that happened."
"Probably the same way the bit that said 'Server experience will be well-regarded' was changed to 'Lizard training skills will be well-regarded.'"
"That was autocorrect."
"Uh huh..."
She briefly loses interest, looks back to her computer. One screen shows an online store selling shoes so tall they'd require planning permission. The other is Facebook, where a succession of high-angle selfies are uploading to a new album entitled '#YOLO'." The conversation resumes as a picture appears of a pretty brunette vomiting into a hat.
"You've had ten applicants for the role."
My turn to do surprise. "Ten? It said two hundred when I looked last week!"
"Oh, they were all unsuitable. I've taken the liberty of screening them. And shortlisting them. And choosing the successful candidate. She starts next Monday."
Things were happening a bit quick. "Um...does she, uh..."
"She's perfect. You'll love her. Thanks, now excuse me, I need..."
"Okay, hold it. Who..."
A resume comes at me at speed. There's a photo on the front. She's gorgeous. Made up. Dressed fashionably. None of these words have ever been used about a sys admin.
"She looks..."
"What?"
I glance up at pretty blonde. "...familiar."
A shrug. "She has a familiar face."
"She looks like you."
"I have a familiar face."
"Is this your sister?"
A snort. "Ridiculous."
I glance at the cover. "She's got the same last name."
"I have a common name."
"Common in Budapest perhaps. I'd need four Scrabble sets to get this many ys and zs."
"Are you being racist?"
"Far from it. Some of my best friends are called..." I glance at her screen as another photo uploads. "Hey, isn't that her?"
A flurry of clicks. "No."
"That was her. What was she doing to that stripper?"
"He was a dancer."
"A dancer? He was in her lap. That makes him a..."
"Look, is any of this relevant?"
"Not to whether she can provide IT support. All she was supporting in that photo was that stripper's..."
"She can do the IT. I checked."
Eyebrow twitch. "Oh yes? How's her SQL?"
"Fine."
"Her SAN and VMWare experience?"
"Extensive."
"Her GTA V skills?"
"Even better." Narrowed eyes. "Wait, is that a computer thing?"
"Sort of." I flick open the resume. Comic Sans font. I die a little inside. "It says here she last worked as a PA."
Indignant voice. "In a computer company."
"And that means she can manage six hundred desktops and eighty servers?"
She gives me a weird sideways glance. "About as much as a one-year programming diploma means you can supervise her."

Uh oh.

She's checked my file. Frankly, she's right; I would never hire me. But there's no way I'm telling her that. She thinks Java code is the language they speak in Jakarta. Anyway, getting rid of me would mean way too many skeletons emerging from way too many closets, and a severance package that would halve the company's share price.
Nonetheless, aggression needs to be answered in kind. I glance at her screen. "That's a lot of browser tabs you've got open."
Big eyes. "Browser whats?"
Oops. Slightly simpler aggression perhaps. "Web pages. Lots of web pages. Actually, I've noticed an uptick in your Internet use lately. And there were some...interesting websites in there."
I haven't. And if I had, there probably weren't. But say that to anyone and I guarantee they'll start sweating.
She only blushes slightly. I'm impressed. Pretty, confident and composed; I'd have asked her out long ago, if it weren't for her personality.
"I use a lot of websites," she says primly. "For assessing candidates."
"Assessing candidates?" I look at her screen. "That's Facebook!"
Withering look. "It's an essential pre-screening tool."
My eyebrows raise in retaliation. "You're uploading photos."
"You learn a lot about a candidate from..."
"Of a dance party."
"Candidates' leisure activities are..."
 "That's a picture of you. You seem to be wearing..." I peer closer, "...two rugby players."
Not a flicker. She's good. Maybe I SHOULD...no. "Isn't it a breach of some...IT policy thing to look at my screen?"
"Nope. Isn't it a breach of some...HR policy to pimp your sister to the company?"
Narrowed eyes. "What are you implying?"
"Mostly that I don't want your sister groping around in my network ."
Faint shrug. "All the other candidates withdrew."
"What? When?"
"When one of the pre-screening questions we asked them was 'Do you mind working for a convicted criminal?'"
She smiles faintly, looks back to Facebook as it rolls over to a picture of her flashing gang signs in front of a bored-looking bouncer. I lean back, cross my arms.
"So it's her or nothing."
"Looks like it." Click, picture of...I look away quickly. Regardless of circumstances, I never, ever want to see the colour of a colleague's underwear. Time to move things along.
"You like your sister?"
A snort. "Of course."
"Pleased to hear it. You trust her?"
Shrug. "Sure."
I nod. "Good, good. She know your Facebook password?"
The smile fades. "Of course not."
"She got access to your email?"
Frowning now. "No...what does that..."
"If your home computer broke, would you trust her to fix it?"
I have her attention. Facebook's gone with a click; she turns toward me, says nothing. I check my phone, let her sweat a moment.
"Can't see it being a problem," I say, scrolling old emails. "If she's as good as you say, she should have no problem fixing your work computer. Right?"
'Well, she..."
"And once I give her admin rights on our network, there's NO chance she'll eavesdrop on your email? Or remote to your computer while you're Facebooking?"
She actually pales. "You can do that?"
"Yup. Not that I would of course; I respect you as a colleague too much. And I can't imagine your..." I glance at the date of birth on the resume "...younger sister holds a grudge for anything you did to her growing up."
Pursed lips. "Look. Maybe..." She reaches for the resume. I lean back, browse the contents. Six months as PA for an 'Adult entertainment company executive'. Nice. Time to seal the deal. "I'm starting to think she'll fit in pretty well."
A grimace. "There...uh..."
"Mmm?"
A pause. I actually hear her teeth grind. "There might be a few candidates we haven't contacted. Would. You. Like. To see their resumes?" The words come out like bullets, ricocheting off the walls.
I toss Miss Adult Shop back on her desk, stand up. "That'd be great!" On a whim I decide to push my luck. "And hey, I'm pretty busy this week; maybe you could write up my interview notes when I'm done with them?"
Warning glance. "Sorry. Bit busy myself; performance reviews are coming up. And you know how tricky those comments can be."
Our eyes lock. The world ages around us, In the silence I hear unattractive mousey one whimper. We nod imperceptibly, then both speak at once.
"Send me those resumes."
"I'll send you those resumes."
The stormclouds retreat. I smile, feeling more alive that I have for a long time. "Always a pleasure doing business. You busy Saturday?"
"What?"
"I said 'looking forward to seeing those resumes!'"

Monday, September 1, 2014

The seven(ish) kinds of IT folks



Some IT people are really simple. You can pretty much treat them like vending machines: insert coins, select the flavour of IT support you want and out it comes, hot and fresh. There are armies of these simple, happy IT drones out there, all cheerfully answering your desperate self-righteous calls for 'customer service' by telling you to try a reboot then click on the Start button no ma'am the START button that's right the one with 'Start' written on it well done. They're friendly and easy to deal with, and the only catch is that your idiot questions will end up on their Christmas party blooper reel. A fair percentage of them are also actively working to bring about the robot apocalypse, but there's no need to worry; that's a good three years off yet.

But that's not all of them. What about the rest? Like the ones who keep the wheels turning where you work? The ones who bleat on about 'policy' and 'security' and 'not writing your password on the lunchroom whiteboard'? Those guys are a LOT trickier to deal with. Telling them apart can be the difference between safe, secure, Internetty happiness, and your desktop wallpaper being replaced with a montage of Twilight characters for a year. So it pays to know your dev from your sysop from your dba. Ready? Let's begin...

(And a pre-emptive caveat: the gender bias is pretty much how things are. Seriously, the last Microsoft conference had a delegate-to-goatee ratio very close to 1)


THE DESKTOP GUY
This is the bloke who turns up when you call up to ask why your password's stopped working since you changed it ("Of COURSE I haven't forgotten the new one! It...oh wait."), to demand extra RAM to make your Excels work faster, or to lie to about dropping your phone in the toilet. He's the backbone of every IT department, the butt of every tedious 'nerd' joke, and the one who'll save your career when you accidentally email your, ah, candid Bali holiday snaps to the CEO instead of your spouse.  He comes in a variety of flavours:

-the Ageing Gamer:
With a five-figure college debt racked up while playing Civilization Online, he now runs his own game servers, and makes enough doing it to pay his World of Warcraft subscription fees. He can get you online playing WoW against Russian gangsters, Call of Duty against American soldiers in Iraq, or Candy Crush against Japanese schoolgirls, though various restraining orders sometimes make that one tricky. Years of keeping gamer/hacker wannabees honest means he knows networks, servers and customers, and can keep any company's infrastructure humming, so long as half the users are elves and NOBODY argues with the Dungeon Master.

-the Helpful Guy:
With an instinct for trouble and a desire to please, the Helpful Guy always seems to be online just as the servers crash and the core switch gets devoured by velociraptors. He's meant to be on leave, but insists there's just enough time to apply those patches before he has to fly out on his honeymoon. Colleagues smilingly tell him to take a break, but always in that weird 'just being polite' way; the whole office knows that the minute he takes long service, the company is doomed.

-the Enthusiastic Amateur
Utterly untrained yet genuinely brilliant, the Enthusiastic Amateur is somehow always about 31 years old, always has a goatee, has always had exactly three IT jobs, and will do anything you want, so long as he gets to poke something with a screwdriver. He lives for the new toy, the new system, the opportunity to look behind the door marked "Danger! Radiation!" Throw him in an empty room with a broken laptop and lock the door: he'll emerge a week later, the laptop fixed, the room networked and his beard somehow exactly the same length. The only down side of the Enthusiastic Amateur is that his enthusiasm cannot be focussed. You can send him on a server course, but the odds are he'll come back utterly uninterested in your new servers, but with a design for a coal-powered network switch.

-the Talented Slacker
Experienced. Capable. Intuitive. Lazy, lazy, lazy. The talented slacker knows the game, knows the language, and could do most jobs in the department. But doing them would mean getting off Reddit, missing a percentage point uptick in the price of Bitcoins, maybe even putting down the puzzle cube someone brought in and talking to <shudder> customers. Despite being paid to do so, he sees every password reset or is-the-Internet-down query as a deliberate insult to his considerable intelligence. More interesting problems occasionally catch his nanosecond attention span, leading to a flurry of uncharacteristically productive work, followed by an equal period of eye-rolling and sighing about how dire things would be if he wasn't around. Moody and unpredictable, the talented slacker is your best friend if you have an interesting problem for him, but a surly hate-filled cloud of resentment if it's a lost file or yet another blue screen on the ancient laptop you won't let go of because it's got all your shortcuts on it.


THE NETWORK GUY
Speaks five languages. Programs in seven, Can swear in nine. None of them are English.
Network Guy is the Propellerhead among propellerheads. He gets sent to IT conferences and spends every hour of every day actually attending the sessions, only visiting the bar to corner one of the speakers about a syntax error in one of his slides. His descent into social oblivion began the day he first logged on to a network switch, and saw the exposed, pulsing arteries of the Internet laid bare. Soon afterwards he was on his first Cisco course. Within weeks he was at his third, and was correcting the lecturer in the aggrieved tones of a disappointed parent. Family were abandoned soon after; friends were kept only if they lived somewhere he might want to put in a wifi repeater some day.
Always be nice to this guy. He owns your browser history, and you better believe he's saving it for the day you try to download Game of Thrones using HIS network.


THE DATABASE GUY
A stickler for procedure. Unless it's not one of HIS procedures, in which case it's 'unnecessary red tape'. Brilliant, but routinely forgets his wife's birthday, forget's his wife's anniversary, forgets his wife's name if there's something interesting going on at work. He could rebuild the financial database using ten years of transaction logs and one of those stupid backwards calculators if you asked him to. But every pub night thereafter, you'd have to listen to him tell the story of the time he rebuilt the entire financial database using ten years of transaction logs and one of those awesome backwards calculators. The database guy is usually the one with the best social skills: he's the one who brings Tequila and a Playstation to server maintenance night, and keeps trying to get everyone to come indoor rock climbing with him. He'll also have something quirky in his background, like a licence to export rare lizards, a brief career fronting a Nirvana cover band, or a long-standing world record for the most vegan samosas consumed in one sitting. Despite all this, he's like a technical Jehovah's Witness: he loves what he does, and wants everyone else to share that love. He'll constantly try to get everyone onto dba courses, and can't understand why anyone would want to fiddle about with pointless distractions like network gear, servers, food and families.
It's a mistake to get too comfy around Database Guy; he won't be around long. He's already registered his own company name, and is quietly using his regular employer as a guinea pig, server farm, software provider and prospective customer. The moment he perfects the Wonderful New Thing everyone keeps praising him for, he'll quietly take it off the servers, slip out the door and leave nothing but a pile of pistachio shells and cold vegan samosas. The next day, every database will lock up, and refuse to display any data except the phone number of a fresh new Database Support company that's just opened its doors in town.


THE ADMIN ASSISTANT GIRL
Smiles prettily and apologises for being the office bitch. But don't you call her the office bitch. Not if you ever, EVER want to receive stationery again.
The power behind the power. She has the cabcharges, the credit cards, the phone bill audit, the flight bookings access, the personnel details; in short, she is armed to the teeth and enthused by the prospect of meting out a little bottom-up justice. She doesn't understand the technology, the language or anything else about the trade she is exposed to every day; not because she is stupid, but because she is afraid of becoming 'one of them.' Nonetheless, the Infinite Monkeys principle means she will one day use a phrase like 'The proxy is caching' in the right context. The seismic shock this will produce through the department will leave everyone wondering if she's reaching for a technical job; specifically their technical job. She's not (seriously, she still thinks a mac address is a place to get a burger), but it's a good time to ask for volunteers for the server room relocation.


THE SERVER GUY
He started as a helpdesk guy, then moved to sys admin (which is the same thing, but he can be ruder to customers). Then he discovered the server room, and was instantly enraptured by its pristine beauty, its ordered symmetry, its complete lack of contact with actual humans. Now he won't talk to anyone about anything unless they've talked to a helpdesk drone first. He still has the skills to reset a password, but he believes that doing so would be like asking Michaelangelo to draw a stick figure comic.
Of course, server guy has a problem: every helpdesker in the department wants his better-paid, more interesting and customer-free job. So his first priority is to ensure NOBODY understands the contents of the server room. Server guys have a variety of techniques to achieve this end, such as a) leaving old equipment in there as decoys, b) locking cabinets and hiding the keys under the admin assistant's spare shoe pile, and c) destroying any and all documentation that might give anyone a clue what is making that beeping noise, or where the smoke is coming from on Backup Tuesday.


THE WEB DEVELOPER
These aren't really IT guys. Moving on...


THE MANAGER
Used to be a sys admin. Used to know how to build a server. Used to recognise a hard drive fault just by the noise it made when it started up. Now he calls a switch a 'network thingy', and logs a service ticket when he needs to add a column of figures in a spreadsheet.
Two things terrify the manager: a) the prospect of someone calling his bluff and revealing his utter unsuitability for managing a technical department, and b) the prospect of actually having to do anything technical, ever again. Therefore the best way to keep this manager on side is to never ask him to make a technical decision, and to occasionally frighten him with a long-winded tale about a technological near-calamity that you averted because you spent all night on the VPN ensuring the VMDK backups were replicating to the Data Domain across the GAN. The temptation to overdo it is always there though, and many a helpdesker has gone too far with talk of topping up IP fluid, or rerouting the tachyon pulse array through the main deflector dish. This is a quick and easy way to ensure you're on monthly maintenance duty for the foreseeable.
IT managers leave eventually. This presents the CEO with the vexed problem or either a) hiring a new IT manager from outside, or b) promoting one of the pale, shuffling ghouls that appear when he asks for a dry keyboard. Since a) would require some effort and contact with non-CEO humans, and would reveal that most CEOs knows less about computers than their grandkids, they inevitably choose b).
The question of WHICH ghoul to promote is however no less challenging. The one who swears in Hungarian and gets the thousand-year stare when he talks about routers or light switches or whatever? The one who keeps telling that boring story about the financial database at the Christmas party? Or maybe the one who's built a cardboard box fort around his desk? The answer is of course 'whichever one doesn't look like he eats bugs and lives in a basement full of life-size cutouts of Doctor Who assistants'. And since the database guy is the only one with any semblance of social skills left, he usually gets the gig.
Surprisingly, this results in a DROP in the quality of database management; database-guy-now-manager-guy either hires a second-rate replacement for his old role to ensure his skeletons remain hidden, or he interferes in New Guy's work so much that nothing actually gets done. Given that the new guy is always suspiciously busy developing a Wonderful New Thing, it hardly matters.


THE PROJECT GUY
Tired of thinking for a living? Sick of being held accountable for your actions? Like Facebook a LOT? If you answered yes to all three, you're well on the way to being the Project Guy.
In principle, Project Guy is someone who's been doing the techy thing for so long he knows the names of every Windows release better than his kids' names (and the really hard core ones have daughters called 'Vista'.) Able to fix a blue screen with nothing more than a withering glance, he's hungry for a bigger challenge, and takes on the tough gigs like deploying a thousand desktops, rebuilding the servers without turning them off and on again, and convincing the CEO to clear his Deleted Items folder every now and then. His technical instincts take care of most of the work, leaving him plenty of time to threaten suppliers, argue with consultants and deal with executives who would like their old computer back please especially the folder on the D drive marked 'private' oh no reason.
Tragically, this is not what usually happens. The moment Project Guy gets the title, the Promised Land beckons. Daily reporting requirements become monthly updates, delays can be blamed on 'unresponsive vendors' or 'lack of engagement from the business', and anything involving actual effort can immediately be delegated to Desktop Guy. Memories of poorly-delivered projects, of undocumented systems, of nights and days spent cursing the previous Project Guy who never documented, mapped, discussed or, well, did anything are immediately forgotten. Desktop Guy instantly becomes the enemy, with his constant demands to know where the maps are, what the support arrangement is, why the new switches have instructions written in Spanish, and how does Project Guy post so much on Facebook if he's always too busy to answer his phone when his new servers catch fire again? Project Guy is above such petty concerns as 'Documentation' and 'Specifications' and 'Servers that aren't on fire' though; he's busy with the Latest Project, the one he's just told the manager will require rerouting the tachyon pulse array through the main deflector dish.


ALL TOO HARD?
Don't worry. Just treat all IT people the same. Even though you might occasionally suffer slow service, or have your bank details handed to Rumanian fraudsters, these are just reflex retaliations. The simple truth is that IT folks really don't give a damn what you think, what you call them, or who you are. Servers and networks and cool new toys are what got them into the trade, and they see users the same way the engineers who build power stations see toasters. They only know you as 'iPhone-in-the-dishwasher-girl', 'forgets-his-password-every-Monday-guy' and 'D-drive-p0rn-manager-guy'.
Honestly though? That's a good thing. If they know your name, that means they're paying attention to you.

And that means yes, they ARE reading your emails...

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Shut up about the shutdown

With the US government in some sort of blue-screen situation that nobody really understands, a lot of things they used to do both on the world stage and domestically are going un-done. Thankfully, the rest of the world is stepping up to take care of business in their absence. Several oil-producing nations have already dispatched large tankers, offering to spill crude oil across miles of pristine US coastline while local producers are unable to do so, and planeloads of firearms offenders from around the world are en route to ensure gun-related deaths are maintained at an NRA-approved level during the shutdown. At the recent gathering of the UN general assembly, several delegates made commitments to their US hosts…

INDIA has agreed to pick up the slack in Hollywood, providing a steady flow of top-shelf silver screen entertainment until America is back on its feet. With the summer blockbusters out of the way, the greater crisis was averted, but there is still a shortfall of about twenty mediocre Zooey Deschanel rom-coms, mid-1920s novel rehashes and CGI-cartoon-character movies. Bollywood has agreed to provide the extra thirty or so movies by increasing its monthly output by 2%, agreeing to throw in a hundred spares in case the first thirty don’t have enough explosions and Bruce Willis.
Viewers were immediately critical of the 'I am Robot' remake, refusing to accept a Will Smith substitute who could act.

GERMANY has stepped up to cover the United States’ considerable output of porn. There will necessarily be something of a change in the character of the output; sales are expected to drop as narrow-minded customers unused to German tastes reject porn remakes of classic Bavarian tales like Little Red Riding Hood, starring the lead actor’s real-life grandma and an actual wolf.

Nope. You don't get a picture for this one

In a surprise move, the function of bombing a randomly chosen Middle-Eastern country every few years was taken up by MONACO. The US Defence Department immediately objected to Monaco on the basis of their lack of cluster bombs, napalm, laser guided munitions or an air force. Several Middle Eastern nations voiced their support for this move, and offered to demonstrate their commitment by putting their nations’ entire GDP on 33 black.
Space restrictions made Monte Carlo's repurposed runway a challenge for fighter pilots


NIGERIA has agreed to provide video gamers with new and interesting titles of the calibre of Grand Theft Auto V and the Halo series. Their first offering, a title called “Nigerian Prince IV: the Rescue” appears to comprise a login screen which prompts users to enter their bank account number, then crashes the computer. Nigerian game companies assured their customers they are working on the problem, and would release a patch as soon as users provided their credit card details.


AUSTRALIA has entered the fray, covering the shortfall in US tourists by dispatching millions of obnoxious sightseers to popular holiday destinations around the globe. The Australian government assured Londoners they would still hear calls  of “There’s a bigger one in Texas,” “This castle thing is OLD! Why don’t they build a new one?” and “We saved your asses in the war.” Parisian officials were promised a steady stream of tanned blubbery fifty-somethings in Hawaiian shirts through the Louvre to frown and complain about how small the Mona Lisa looks, noting that most Queenslanders already do that anyway.
"Look honey, the Mona Lisa! Pass me my extra-bright flash!"

MEXICO offered to provide millions of low-paid and unpaid domestic and other workers, but US officials refused, pointing out that this program has been in effect since 1970.
"Hello, America? We're here about the job ad?"


Several nations’ offers to produce the vast array of high-tech devices manufactured by Apple, Blackberry, HP and IBM were smilingly dismissed by China.
"Make them in America? Nawww, you're cute."


Meanwhile, ITALY has offered to provide advice on how to properly run a government, pointing out that despite having more governments than Christmases since World War 2, and including porn stars and convicted felons amongst their elected officials, they were at least able to keep the parks open.
"Ooh, a cheque! Yoink!"



As UN delegates began heading home, the White House released a statement saying they were ‘disappointed’ with several leaders’ refusal to offer aid on the basis that they’d already seen the Breaking Bad finale. Nonetheless, in a statement on national TV last night, President Obama declined the flood of offers. He thanked the world’s governments, but insisted that they would have the problem licked in no time. This prompted an immediate demand from the Tea Party to institute, quote, “Whatever Obama just said no to.”

Friday, September 13, 2013

One hundred days of Tony

“The honourable the prime minister.”

“Thank you madam speaker. Fellow members of government. Visiting dignitaries. People of Australia. Disorganised Labor rabble. On this, the…alright, shut up you lot. You lost the election, now suck it up. Right, where was I? Oh yeah. On this, the occasion of my first hundred days as prime minister...let me just say that bit again in case you missed it down the back there Kevin, AS PRIME MINISTER, I would like to take this opportunity to reflect on…my magnificent physique. Hah! Just kidding, the ladies are doing that for me, am I right? Where’s the honourable member for sex appeal? Budgie smugglers? Galah smugglers more like! Oh wait wait…COCKATOO SMUGGLERS! You see what I did there? I…what? Well, it’s because…oh for crying out loud…someone explain that joke to Hockey please?
"Ladies..."


“Right, on the occasion of my first hundred yadda yadda reflect on blah blah stunning achievements etc etc. Folks, I’ve kicked arse. You ready for this? Here we go.
“As promised. I have stopped the boats! Since taking office, getting sworn in, taking down those awful bloody curtains Therese put up in the lodge and scraping the blonde hair off the soap in the prime ministerial shower, I have not let a SINGLE boat land on Australian shores! Thank you, thank you. Now, it wasn't easy:  that lot can be pretty determined to get ashore when there’s nothing waiting back home but a truncheon massage and a cell with a view. Thankfully our navy’s got a bunch of boats with thumping big guns on them. I tell you what, a couple potshots with those things and nothing you’d still call a boat is left to come ashore! ‘Course, the navy can’t cover everywhere, so we had to, ah, pull a bit of a swifty on the international asylum seeker laws. By the book, we don’t have to take ‘em unless they land on a bit that’s officially ‘Australian soil’, so we've redefined ‘Australian soil’ to mean something a bit easier to defend. Specifically the contents of that big plant pot out in the foyer of Parliament house. Now if someone can drive a boat up to that thing, bugger it, I’ll give ‘em a visa myself!
"Welcome to Australia. Please form a very small queue."


“And not only have we stopped the boats. We listened to the voice of the Australian people when they stood up proud and tall at the last election, drew breath and proclaimed ‘Fuck off, we’re full!’ So in addition to our boaty-stoppy work, we’ve got rid of all those pesky engineers and doctors and nurses and teachers and other lowlifes clogging up the pristine beauty of our detention camps. That’s right, picked up the camps at the corners and shook ‘em over New Guinea until everyone fell out! Right now they’re probably wandering around the jungle looking for a dole office, amirite?
“And the carbon tax - as promised: abolished! Yup, we abolished the hell out of that baby, threw it out along with the billions spent setting it up. We didn’t stop there either. It was pretty clear what the majority of Australians were saying there: carbon is GOOD! Burning coal Is AWESOME! So me and Chris jumped in the Pynemobile and drove around the place, pushing down windmills, throwing rocks at solar panels. chopping down trees and setting fire to Peter Garrett. You better believe the beds were burning that day, hey Pete? Lookin’ good buddy, the skin grafts are coming along nicely. We also headed for Lucas heights just in case they were making any electricity there, but...yeah, Chris got a bit green-looking after he went in this door marked ‘Radiation’, so we might have to look at the nuclear question later.
"CHRIS PYNE ANGRY! CHRIS PYNE SMASH RENEWABLE ENERGY SOURCES WHOSE EXISTENCE CONTRADICTS LIBERAL PARTY ANTI-SCIENCE STANCE!"
“Of course my crowning achievement is in the realm of gay marriage. Or as I like to call it, ‘Not on my bloody watch!’ After Kev outed himself on this one and then got horribly punted for it in the polls, it was pretty obvious people didn’t want the sanctity of marriage polluted by extending the privilege to the LBG…the BLT…ahh, what the hell do they call themselves these days? Bish! Hey Julie! Get on the blower to my sister and find out what the poofters and lezzies call themselves willya? Anyway, whatever it is, Australians said a loud and proud ‘NO!’ to bloke-on-bloke. And to girl-on-girl, except in the context of two hot twenty-somethings getting naked and sweaty on a casting couch in front of a fifty dollar video camera.
"Welp, that rules out Australia, Marcie."


“Now, these fine policy initiatives have had some flow-on effects; sort of the eggs you have to break to make an omelette. First up, immigrants. Job’s done, they’re outta here. You’re welcome. Unfortunately, our workforce is now short about a hundred thousand taxi drivers, service station attendants, helpdesk operators, cleaners, bus drivers and a few dozen other jobs they all did while we processed the papers that would let them use their qualifications as architects and brain surgeons and what have you. Unfortunately, since not one bloody Australian’s willing to get off the dole for less than thirty bucks an hour, there’s nobody to do all these jobs. So it’s two hour taxi queues on weekdays, petrol stations are closing at 3pm, you’re on hold to Telstra for the better part of a day if your phone spits the biscuit, and you’re making your way through ankle-deep garbage at the average Westfield food court. All worth it though eh? No more detention centres taking up valuable desert space, no more funny-looking people in the queue in front of you at the supermarket, and the taxi drivers all talk about the footy instead of some long, boring tale about escaping from Bakalakadakastan with nothing but their shoes and a picture of Sydney Harbour Bridge.
"Oh, you know. Three years political prisoner, two years detention camp, thousand miles in boat made of sticks and leaves. But I am boring you; tell me about your bad office day."
Sure, you have to wait three weeks to get a doctor’s appointment now, but at least the bloke’s the same colour as you when you finally get in there! And really, what’s more important: cheap, fast medical care or not having to strain your ears a little because the doc’s got a bit of an accent?
There’s been a bit of a thing with the carbon tax too.  Some eggheads are telling me it’s getting hotter and wetter, and without a carbon tax to keep a lid on all the odourless, tasteless, invisible undetectable whatever-it-is, it’s gunna happen faster. But you know what that means? More Speedo weather! Yup, farms might fail and oceans might rise, but your prime minister will be front and centre, stripped down to the swimmers and representing you on the world stage. So it’s win-win!
Which just leaves the…what’s that Jules? LGBT, really? I think I had one of those at Subway last week. Orrite, so the whole no-poofters-marrying thing. You'll be pleased to know there's only good news on that one. A lot of, ah, musical types have left the country since we enshrined the 'No pooftas!' rule in the constitution. But at the same time, a lot of meat-and-potatoes, Liberal-voting, right-thinking, Alan Jones-listening average Australians have...well actually they're doing exactly the same thing they were doing before the rainbows-and-hot-pants set came out of the built-in robes: going to work, holidaying in Bali and complaining about the government not doing enough to stop moral decline. So it's just like the good old days of the 1950s! Or at least it will be once I pass the 'No wives in the workplace' bill next year. Haha, not you Bish; not gunna let my fave attack dog escape from the kennel that easy. Tell you what, we'll make you an honorary Bloke.
"Temperature...rising...rage...building..."

"Now if you'll all excuse me, Rupert's asked me to drop by to discuss tomorrow's headlines. Don't want to keep the big guy waiting!"

Sunday, May 26, 2013

21(ish) things I learned from Star Trek: Into Darkness



STAR TREK, in its many iterations, has taught us some invaluable lessons about the future. Captains get all the girls (especially the green ones), the Prime Directive is at best a guideline, no crew is complete without a lycra-clad babe, and if you accompany the bridge crew down to a strange planet, you're better off going naked than wearing a red shirt. But what lessons can we glean from the latest excursion? Here are 21(ish) things I learned from watching Star Trek: Into Darkness...


(And I'm sure I don't need to say it, but SPOILERS! Go see the movie first. It's cool, I'll wait.)


1) Robocop is a terrible spaceship captain*. Also he is clearly evil because dark spaceship.
"Your move, creep."
 

 
2) You need to line your ship up exactly before you blast two people out the airlock to another ship nearby. Pinpoint accuracy in this liney-uppy step is essential, even though once they’re out there, they can swoop and dive and dodge and crash into debris like deranged pinballs.
"Left a bit...right a bit...nono your other right...oh wait, never mind; this suit's got rockets on it!"
 

 
3) You can trot out the same villain three times, but fans will say things like 'homage', respecting the genre' and 'welcome reprise', rather than 'stale', 'derivative', and 'Seriously? THAT guy again?'
"KHAAAAN!"
"KHAAAAN!"

"KHAAwait, what?"
 

 
4) No matter how many phasers you bring to the fight, you always end up punching a Klingon

 
5) Leonard Nimoy is still awesome


"So I said, 'Pointy ears or not, you wait. Forty years from now they'll STILL want me in the movies, even when someone else is playing my character!'"
6) Thanks to antimatter, there are no oil refineries in the future. But their designers all got jobs making starship engine rooms.
"Follow me! Past the diesel tanks, between the gas towers and under the distillate condensers and we'll be in the car park! I mean shuttle bay!"

 7) Warp drive means flying down a tube. Made of blue fairy dust. That you can fall out of.

8) Starfleet regulations state that everyone gets a cabin where they can change their uniform. Except hot blondes, who have to get changed in a shuttle on the way to work.

'<sigh> Alright, let's get it over with. "Oh captain, what kind of space bimbo do you think I am? You MUST turn away while I put on my space costume over my space underwear"'
 

 
9) Spaceship doctors randomly inject blood samples from supervillains into dead tribbles. Nobody thinks this is weird.

9a) Spaceship doctors always have a couple of dead tribbles in a box under their desk. Just in case they capture a supervillain.
"Aaand we're done. Nurse, fetch my tribbles please?"

 
10) Space suit visors will develop dramatic cracks over several minutes, without letting any air out.
"Wait, have I already used this picture?"
 
11) Scotty figured out how to beam people onto spaceships moving at warp speed several light years away. But he can't beam someone out of a volcano half a mile off unless he makes eye contact.
He also can't beam a bomb into a volcano without someone having to go along to turn it on.

12) If you have to go into a volcano to turn a bomb on, protect yourself from lave by standing up, closing your eyes and spreading your arms really wide.

"VOLCAANOOOO!"
 
13) Need to kill 72 frozen bad guys? Contrive a plot to assassinate someone on the enemy's home planet by duping a starship captain into firing 72 mysteriously shielded experimental super-torpedoes containing the frozen bad guys. This is a much better way to get rid of 72 frozen bad guys than, say, opening their cryo-tubes and stabbing them with a pen.
"Cap'n, I cannae sign for these new torpedoes! The scanners don't penetrate...wait, can you hear snoring?"
 

 
14) New Uhura is hot. But they still can't find anything useful for her to do.
"Quick, lieutenant Uhura! Do that pose where you're looking at them, but they can see your butt!"
 
"That's it! Now smile and say something sexy in Klingon!"
 

 
15) Klingons now look a little bit like Predators. Which is an improvement over the Next Generation lobster hats.
"Over here..."


16) Gigantic spaceships can be prevented from crashing into San Francisco by firing little jets on their undersides. Once the ship stops falling, you can turn the little jets off without falling.
 
17) It's possible to blow up a deeply buried ultra-high security building using nothing more than a ring and a glass of water. But attacks on unguarded high-rise offices are best carried out by shaky gunfire from vulnerable hovering aircraft. That you can take out with a fire hose.
"I totally wish we could've used the vulnerable hovering aircraft for this job..."
 

18) Space suits? Dozens of 'em, at every airlock. One radiation suit? Hanging near the warp core hatch? Are you mad??
18a) Warp cores are the pinnacle of humanity's technological achievement, capable of powering enormous starships across the galaxy at unimaginable speeds. Restoring power when they break involves kicking the pointy bit in the middle until it sparkles again.
18b) But only bridge officers know where to kick it.
18c) Scotty could build a radiation-proof warp core-kicking robot out of old shuttle parts and tribble fur in about ten minutes. But nobody thought to ask because dramatic death scene.
 
19) Earth's gravity doesn't latch on until the supervillain is defeated.
 
20) Everything crashes into San Francisco.
"Quick! Fire the little jets! OR WE MIGHT MISS SAN FRANCISCO!"
  
21) It really doesn't matter how crap the movie is.  It doesn't matter how implausible the story might be, how much they overuse lens flare or how rapidly Star Trek is cannibalising its own history. It's still better than anything George Lucas has done since 'Empire'.
"Jarjar who?"
 
 
LLAP, baby.


*(This was going to be a Buckaroo Banzai reference. But I think I'm the only person who saw that film.)