Has Anybody Seen This Naked Korean Guy's Ass Before?

(Will's note: I wrote this in the middle of the night, while in a fit of sleeplessness and then failed to post it. After reviewing it this morning, I decided to post it anyway, more or less as is.)


Fuck this fucking insomnia. Fuck it with a big, splintery piece of stovewood…

I’ve stated before that any success I’ve had writing stems solely from my taking the business of fools very seriously. If you’re an idiot, I want to get to know you a little better. Engage in stupid and dangerous behavior? Well, that’s just super - I’ve got some questions. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab you a Red Bull or something.

As I write this it occurs to me that the combination of prescription sleeping pills I took about an hour ago may have started to kick in, so if I ramble a bit tonight, please don’t hold it against me.

A couple of weeks ago I came across a story about a purse snatcher in Seoul Korea, who (whom?) after plying his trade one afternoon realized that the local constabulary were wise to his antics and closing in fast. So, the intrepid thief did what any reasonable human being would do - which is to take off all your clothes and climb into the sewers to escape.

I’d like to revise the above paragraph a little (sleeping pills, sorry) for clarification and emphasis. A South Korean National stole a woman’s purse and then evaded the cops by taking off all of his clothes and climbing into the sewers.
I know I sometimes kid around and bullshit here but I assure you this took place. Before I finish here, I will post links to the actual news source to which I refer, but I’m not quite done with my diatribe yet.

First of all, let me say that I’ve never actually been in a Korean sewer before, North or South. I have, however, seen The Host…

And let me just say that if there’s even a chance that shit may have been based on something somebody heard - you know, kinda like the alligators in the NYC sewers - all I gotta say is fuck that noise, bro. You couldn’t get me within a hundred feet of those sewers. I was in Korea once, for like a day, in Pohang. I saw the water there, and I don’t doubt for a second that giant jet-black mutant tentacle frogs could be spawning like goddamned rabbits in that sludge, and nobody would be the wiser.

I strayed there - big surprise. My point had to do with the naked purse snatcher, crawling under Seoul in its catacombs of shit tunnels and monster orgies - the cops caught him.

With a robot.

I know that at this point everybody has completely checked out of this page. You think that the pills have taken hold of my brain and now my tired, feverish mind is just making shit up, but it’s all true, every last word …

I can' stop thinking about this guy, who he was, why he did what he did. But the Choisin Ilbo, TUF, and Nippon News Network have all buried the story somewhere in their indecipherable (at least to my non-Japanese, and non-Korean speaking self's) archives. All I have for now is the video, and a lot of questions. This idiot could be my white whale. Aah… I’m done for the night, it’s taking me a half-dozen tries to hammer out each sentence. Anyway click on the link and see for yoursef. I’m not done with this one yet… It has my full atten-

Kirk Moufe versus The Sharktopus - The Final Chapter

(Will's notes)

I'm so genuinely fucking tired of this guy. It was supposed to be a movie review - nothing all that much, just a few paragraphs on a cute little Roger Corman B-movie, one of those direct-to-the-SyFy network numbers. Maybe if he'd gone with "Frankenfish", things would have turned out differently.

Probably not, though. You see, the problem is Kirk is a complete idiot and a drug-addled menace, who cannot be trusted with guest blogging. Instead of reviewing a movie, he washed down a bunch of psilocybin-laced brownies with several prescription ADHD pills and went on a berzerk rampage. After attempting to destroy every piece of electronic equipment in his girlfriend's house, he stole her car, and things just got worse from there.

I had one last interview with Kirk, and have since been able to check out some of the ensuing court documents and police reports, in order to piece together the rest of the story.

Tammy McLean (Kirk's girlfriend at the time) happened to work for The Mad Cow Energy Drink, LLC as a member of their "Street Team". Which basically meant that Tammy drove around in a car shaped like a giant cow and handed out free energy drinks while wearing a cow print string bikini and fake plastic steer-horns that were affixed to Tammy's forehead via a complicated, time-consuming and somewhat uncomfortable combination of latex, velcro, and hair extensions. It was around 4 pm that Tammy came home and found Kirk and the man known as "Buzzard" in her living room, where Kirk had stacked every television set in the house into a pyramid of sorts.

Kirk was holding a baseball bat and staring at it in confusion, while Buzzard was dumping the contents of a golf bag onto the living room floor. I was able to ask Kirk about this later on, and to the best of his recollection, at that moment he was trying to figure out how to plug the baseball bat into a wall socket, in order to turn it on. You know, so he could destroy what he'd termed "The Sharktopusatron".

Tammy asked them exactly what the hell it was they thought they were doing. As she had just walked into the house straight from a promoting gig, she hadn't had time to change out of her outfit yet, nor to remove the horns. Kirk and Buzzard, hallucinating massively by this point, assumed that Tammy was some sort of demon that had been summoned to prevent them from smashing the Altar of Sharktopus. Both of them immediately jumped out of the living room window, screaming their heads off.

In a perfect display of drug-logic, Kirk and Buzzard then doubled around the front of the house and back to the garage. Tammy McLean, being a creature of habit, had hung her keys on the hook right next to the garage door. Kirk swiped the keys and the two of them liberated the cow-car in a violent display of smoke and screeching tires.

The next few hours were somewhat of a blur. Although nobody was hurt, there was massive property damage along with the theft of several of these:

I don't even know what the fuck you're supposed to call those things, but Kirk and Buzzard stole over two dozen of them from various used car lots, pay-day loan centers and at least one road-side taco stand. In the few chances I've had to speak with Kirk since the whole incident I've been able to gather that by this point he and Buzzard were intending to assemble their own Sharktopus, although Kirk can't recall whether the intent was to have theirs do battle with the original Sharktopus or to build him a mate.

Anyway, it all came to a head sometime that evening as one of the summer monsoons hit Phoenix pretty hard.

The cow-shaped car, which was already aerodynamically unsound before the addition of thirty-or-so massive balloon streamers, began veering wildly across the road and crashed into a man-made lake just outside the Chandler Gardens Pita Jungle. Several diners witnessed Kirk and Buzzard clamber out of the lake and disappear into the dust storm before the arrival of police/EMS vehicles.

Kirk and Buzzard have both ignored my advice to turn themselves over to the authorities, and instead have opted to flee to Norway and start a Black Metal band. They are currently auditioning guitarists.

Tammy has recently changed her Facebook status from "It's complicated", back to "Single".

I wish them all well, and truly hope they get their shit together.

Kirk Moufe Versus The Sharktopus, Part 3

(Will's Notes:)

After spending the better part of yesterday pouring through Kirk's papers, I discovered that what he had written actually had very little to do with the film Sharktopus, and was in fact a disturbingly erotic bit of fan fiction involving himself, Anne Coulter and Michelle Bachmann in one of those "marooned in a desert island" scenarios. There was also a lot of crudely drawn attempts at what may have been Hentai pornography, or simply sketches of the Sharktopus itself.

In the interest of hanging on to whatever shred of decency this blogsite may still have any hope of maintaining I have elected for now to post neither the sketches nor any excerpts from KM's threeway right-wing cougarotica.

As a matter of fact, I was ready to scrap the whole thing last night. I had procured several pints of Boddington's Ale and queued up a bunch of bad movies on Netflix when I got a call from a friend who wished not to be named, telling me he'd found Kirk sleeping in the back of his pick-up truck, and would I come get him, please.

I did, and after hosing him off in the backyard for a few minutes, then dumping a bottle of Flea and Tick Shampoo on him, repeating the process, burning his clothes and finding him a suitable set of sweats from the box I keep meaning to drop off at Goodwill, I was ready to hear firsthand, how the rest of that day had unfolded. The following is a 1st person account, in his own words.

(Kirk's Notes)


Buzzard and I had done it - we'd created an altar of sorts, one befitting to the Magnum Opus of Roger Corman's career. This was the guy who taught Jack Nicholson how to act, for God's sake. He taught Francis Ford Coppola how to make movies - He's the fucking master. And now he's giving us a shark. Mated with a fucking octopus. It seemed only appropriate that we should watch this film in a manner that presents it in the awe in which it should be received.

Simple enough - Buzzard and I took the two 32' plasma screens down from the upstairs bedrooms and mounted them next to the big ol' 54 incher I got in the living room downstairs. On any other day figuring out how to sync these multiple sets together would have been far beyond my ken, but thanks to the near lethal amounts of Buzzard's black market Methylphenidate I had coursing through my bloodstream, I probably could have figured out how to make the toaster hum the theme song to Jaws, had I seen fit to do so.

Buzzard seemed to have noticed my agitation. "You're too fucking wired up, man."

"No shit," I said. "What the fuck are they feeding that Ritalin shit to kids for? I wouldn't be surprised if in a few more years those fucked up albino kids from 'Village of The Damned' didn't start sprouting up everywhere."

"You'r talking crazy. Nobody would give a kid that much Ritalin. It could make somebody's head explode."

"Thanks."

"Maybe you should take something to get the edge off, man."

"Yeah, well that vaporizer of yours didn't seem to help."

"I got brownies," Buzzard offered.

I thought about that. "Is it the same stuff from the vaporizer?"

"No, you'll mellow right the fuck out, dude. I promise."

The trusting fool that I was, I pulled a few chunks of brown goo from a cellophane bag and took a couple of slow, careful bites as the stack of televisions whined into life.

As the opening credits to the movie began to roll, I realized the error of our ways. Buzzard and I had climbed too high - while we did not completely destroy the 4th wall that separated us from the carnage that was about to unfold among the unsuspecting revelers in Puerto Vallarta, we'd definitely minimized the safe distance between ourselves and the story.

Good God!!! Every pore in Eric Robert's gloriously chiseled face seemed be reciting his lines right along with him. This was too much. I realized also that for some reason I was sweating, despite having the AC turned down to a balmy 58 degrees, and I was wearing nothing but a pair of cargo shorts and a Melvins T-shirt. More distressing was the fact that my sweat seemed to have taken on a bluish tint.

"Hey," I asked Buzzard. "What was in those brownies?"

"Shh..." he hissed. "Sharktopus is about to come on.

And come on, he did - Like Cthulhu awakening from his slumber... "In his house at R'lyeh" I mumbled, or something like that. I don't know who distressed me more - Sharktopus or Eric Roberts, who for some reason made me want to burst into tears any time his noble face filled the multitude of screens that Buzzard and I, in our drug fueled hubris were foolish enough to stack together into a force multiplier of terror and awe...

Ahh fuck, it's the Sharktopus - It's definitely without a doubt the Sharktopus. I had to get out of the house, and as I told this to Buzzard, his knowing grin turned to a look of alarm as he spied the empty cellophane bag on the coffee table.

"Dude, did you really eat all of those?"

"We don't have time to talk about that." I said. "Go to the hall closet. I have a couple of golf clubs and a bat in there. We've made a terrible mistake. We need to destroy the Sharktopusatron!!!"

(To be continued...)

Kirk Moufe Has Hijacked my Blog - Part 2

Will's note:

For those of you who've been following this blog, as an experiment I've decided to turn the reigns over this week to my former band mate Kirk Moufe, who acts as somewhat of a miscellaneous functionary for me in between gigs. So far it has not been going very well. When I had originally asked him what he'd intended to write about he said he was going to probably do a movie review or something, which seemed reasonable enough.

That was sometime this past Tuesday. The following afternoon I received a series of phone calls, each of them more distressing than the last. The first was from his current, and probably soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend Tammy, who asked if I knew where, in her words: That fucking loser and his asshole friend had taken her car to?

When I replied that I hadn't, I listened to about five minutes of... Well, I wouldn't call it cursing so much as a screeching cacophony of oaths, or maybe a spell perhaps, cooked up by a modern day sorceress with the intent of castrating large mammals via wireless communication devices. When she finished venting, I told her I'd send her a text if I heard from him and then headed straight to the bathroom to clean up the massive nosebleed I'd suffered while in the middle of listening to her profane invective. The next call came from Phoenix PD, asking if I knew the whereabouts of either Kirk Moufe, his girlfriend's car, or an unidentified man that went by the alias "Buzzard". I assured them that I certainly did not, but would call right away if I heard anything at all.

The last call came from a payphone with an address located not far from my house, at a crumbling lot that had once upon a time been a Circle K, and was now a combination Pay-day Loan Mart and Carneceria. It was Buzzard on the line, and he had a stack of papers he needed to hand off to me.

"It was Moufe's final request that I get these to you," he panted into the receiver. "I'm leaving them in one of the newspaper bins, at the bottom of the stack. Grab a couple of quarters and if you hurry you can pick them up before the queens come along and clear out the box."

"Wait, what the fuck are you talking about, man?" I shouted. "Where's Kirk, and what happened to the car?"

I could hear Buzzard's head thump against the filthy plexiglas that surrounded the phone booth. "The car, man... I forgot all about that fucking car. Look, Will, it all got too fucked up for any of us to handle. I'm sorry, but Kirk's gone. And the car..." Buzzard laughed, ruefully. "Man, I forgot all about that fucking car."

He hung up.

I ran upstairs and grabbed a handful of quarters out of the candy dish on my nightstand. The Payday-Meat Market was less than a block away. It was just past four-thirty and a lot of the day-laborers were lined up just outside the double glass doors, drinking tall cans of Modelo and Bud Light sleeved in thin brown bags. For no other reason than to be a total dick, Buzzard went and stashed Kirk's papers at the base of the OUT THERE PHOENIX!!! bin; a weekly publication that's kind of like the Village Voice, only instead of insightful, albeit liberal-biased investigative journalism, OTP is jammed cover to cover with ads for male prostitutes that specialize in "Rough Trade".

So, I heard my fair share of catcalls and wolf whistles from the day-laborers as I rummaged through stacks of glossy photos of leather-clad bears with come-hither grins until I found what I was looking for, all the way at the bottom. Kirk had filled out about 3/4ths of a composition notebook with a single word embossed across the front cover:

SHARKTOPUS

I spent most of yesterday transcribing the events that led up to Kirk's decision to build what he had dubbed the Sharktopusatron. As you may have guessed, by the time he finished assembling this wall of very expensive, high definition televisions, his mind had devolved somewhat, no doubt due to the unholy mixture of prescription ADHD pills and highly potent, medical grade marijuana Kirk and Buzzard had ingested. I have taken great pains to put together the series of events that followed the assembly of the Sharktopusatron.

It should go without saying that I hope at this moment that Kirk is doing alright, that Tammy manages to find her car, and that all of these issues can be resolved without anybody being needlessly incarcerated. Please stay tuned tomorrow for the final episode of Kirk's guest-blog, in which (assuming he manages to turn up) I beat him to within an inch of his life with a sack of Russet potatoes.

Guest Blogger of the Week: Kirk Moufe (Part 1)

(Will's notes)
I guess I should preface this particular entry with a few notes about the complicated history I've had with Kirk Moufe. At the moment, Mr Moufe serves as a "research assistant", which is kind of an odd job for him, seeing as how most of the crap I write about I either make up completely or rip off from The Daily Mail. So, when working for me, Kirk spends most of his day making trips to various dispensaries, procuring medication for everything from epilepsy, to night terrors, to the inexplicable violent rages that I seem to break out into anytime my neighbors play their Nicki Minaj records too loudly. Which they do.

All the fucking time.

If this job sounds kind of harsh and meaningless, well, it is. To be perfectly fair though, once upon a time Kirk and I were 2/3rds of a grindcore band called Drysocket that was doing alright until he and the drummer - his name is Buzzard - decided to toss me out of the band without so much as a warning. The two of them wanted to drop the whole grindcore thing, and do something different. So they sold Kirk's bass guitar and bought a Moog synthesizer and began performing as Charonnn; a two-man low-tone Synth-doom act that when played live, induced fits of uncontrollable vomiting in anyone standing within a hundred meters of an amplifier.

Needless to say, they weren't much of a draw, although they do get invited to play at some of the super hard-core fetish balls every now and then. So nowadays, every once in a while Kirk comes around and I give him some work to do and throw him a couple of bucks. I figure it's better than holding a grudge, and more often than not Kirk manages to provide me with some much needed entertainment. This week he's going to try his hand at guest-blogging on my site, so without further ado, Kirk Moufe, everybody.

What Go Carts, Rihanna's Boobs & Sharktopus Have In Common,
by Kirk Moufe

Since taking up the mantle of "Research Assistant" I've had very little opportunity to do any actual research. This week I decided to remedy that. The purpose of this experiment was to figure out exactly how high a person would have to be to just get, like, blown away by the movie Sharktopus

My reasoning behind the idea that this could totally happen is pretty sound when you think about it. Laughable as this movie may seem to us, it's mostly just because as a society we're kinda jaded. If you were somehow able to beam this movie back to the 1920's and show it to people they would straight up shit themselves in terror and awe. Show a film clip to the right bushman in Papua, New Guinea and bet your ass we'd have a whole new clan of Sharktopus worshipers.

So I called up my pal Buzzard, because for every experiment it's important to have a control. I'm not really sure what a control is, but Buzzard just bought a totally sick new vaporizer that I was stoked to try out. He came over and I explained the experiment to him and he was on board.

I've never used a vaporizer before, and I wasn't sure what to expect, but it was different. It seemed like it was impossible to get a good clean hit off of it, and when I told Buzzard he just shrugged and said "they work differently, is all."

Fair enough. I broke out the Sharktopus DVD and explained the experiment to him. He said that it sounded good and all, but we should check out "Battleship" instead.

"You cow," I snarled. "If it wasn't for the fact that you brought your gear over I'd ban you from the goddamn house for a month just for suggesting such a thing."

"But we're watching a shitty movie on purpose," he said. "How does something like Sharktopus differ from Battleship in the first place?"

To my credit, I managed not to strike the poor, misguided bastard. "Because," I said slowly, patiently, as if speaking to a child. "Sharktopus is intentionally bad. It's aware of its inherent badness and does what it does with a knowing wink and a nod to the audience, with the understanding that everybody is in on the joke. Battleship, on the other hand, was created by evil corporate fucks. It's the worst kind of shit. It plays on the ignorance of the masses by carpetbombing the media with so much advertising and sponsorship and product placement that by the time most people realize what a pile of shit it really is, it's recouped whatever it spent by idiots who didn't know any better in the first place.,"

"The difference between Sharktopus and Battleship is like the difference between the crooked game at the carnival midway and the guy trying to sell a balloon mortgage to a couple of twenty-something newlyweds, knowing full well they'll be upside down on their dream home before they even get done painting the nursery."

Buzzard took a big, smokeless hit off of the vaporizer as he allowed my diatribe to sink in. "Yeah, but Rihanna takes her top off in Battleship."

"Bullshit," I said. But if it was true, it would have changed everything. A few minutes on the internet (Finally, my experience as a research assistant was paying off) proved Buzzard's claim to be false. On a side note, for somebody who spends a lot of time in the Caribbean, Rihanna's tits prove to be fairly elusive creatures.

Anyway, by this time Buzzard and I were both pretty high, and that Sharktopus flick wasn't going to watch itself. The problem was, while I hadn't seemed to have been able to take a really good hit off of Buzzard's vaporizer, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of THC in my bloodstream. So much so, in fact, that I could not for the life of me remember how to operate the myriad of remote controls allayed across my girlfriend's very expensive glass coffee table.

Buzzard must have sensed my distress. "What's with you?" He asked, and goddamned if he wasn't smirking just a little, the prick.

"'They work differently is all...' That's you're explanation for what's happening to me? Jesus Christ, Buzzard, I can hear my own sperm swimming around in my goddamn testicles. What the hell kind of monster kush did you load into that fucking contraption, anyway?"

"Nothing special," he said. "I told you not to try to hit that vaporizer like a normal bong."

"You most certainly did not, fucker."

"Well, I meant to. Anyway, I've got something that'll help. Here." Buzzard fished a half dozen small yellow tablets out of his cargo pocket and dumped them on the coffee table.

"Fuck that," I said. "We're supposed to be doing research. I can't get all gacked out on Ecstasy and try to watch a goddamn Roger Corman direct to DVD movie. The high wouldn't match the medium, you fucking savage. It'd be like sitting through a Tibetan Throat Singing concert on ketamine. 5 minutes into it and we'd be setting the friggin' chairs on fire. Besides, who rolls on a weekday, anyway. What are we, strippers?"

"Relax, this isn't ecstasy. It's a prescription drug to help you focus. It's called Esperanto."

"You mean that universal language that the loonies in the Star Trek outfits speak at the airports?"

"No those are Hare Krishnas, I think."

"Buzzard, you are a fucking idiot," I said, but he wasn't listening. He was snapping his fingers and trying out different words, trying to find the right one.

"Escalade - no. Eskrima, fuck, no that's not it."

I couldn't take much more of this. My eyelids felt like they were engorged in blood, and that at any moment, I might sprout eyestalks like Jar-Jar fucking Binks. "Ritalin?" I offered.

Buzzard snapped his fingers. "Ritalin!" He whooped for joy and clapped two down my open mouth before I could so much as ask him how the fuck he got Esperanto from Ritalin. He then began to crack up a third tablet and dice it up into lines.

I told him that I wasn't interested in snorting anything, and he laughed and called me a "Quaker", whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. "Besides," he said. "I'm just cutting this up because you only need like a little bit for it to take effect."

I didn't like the sound of that one bit. "Like, how little?" I asked.

Buzzard took a long pull and wiped a stream of tears from his eyes. "About a quarter tab will get you zooming," he said.

"And yet you saw fit to give me two. You heartless motherfucker."

Buzzard spread his hands out, palms up, like Jesus receiving his sentence from Pontius Pilate. "Hey man, you wanted to be blown away by Sharktopus. I'm just trying to help you keep your eye on the ball."

He had a point. And now, not only did I understand the function of every remote on the table, I felt at one with every piece of audio-visual technology in the house. Whether or not this was some sort of divine inspiration, or simply my drug-addled brain seeing connections where there were only a jumble of wires and ports, I had an idea, nay an obsession. I was going to move every television in the house downstairs and create a wall of screens - floor to ceiling, corner to corner, filled with nothing but the glory of Roger Corman's finest and most terrifying work come to life.

I would call my creation - The Sharktopusatron - and all would fall before it and weep...

(To Be Continued)

Not with a bang, but a click-click-click-screee...

Before I begin the usual weekly business of trying to put together a vigorish on what event is actually going to end up wiping out the human race (and believe me, I think I may have cinched it this week), I'd like to take a moment to broadcast some happy news. Last year, the good folks over at Cover of Darkness Magazine were kind enough to buy a short story from me called The Dust Bearer. The story was released in April's issue, which just topped the bestseller list over at Sams Dot Publishing. For those of you who have read the story (or for that matter anything I write ever, including this blog), I wanted to take a moment and thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please feel free to drop me a line anytime, I cannot express how grateful I am, to all of you.

If you haven't had a chance to check out the issue, by all means do so. Aside from my own humble offering, there's a lot of great stuff inside. My 2 favorites are Corrie Ralston's Killing Cormac, and Last Breath, by Doug Russell. All of the stories are pretty top notch though, and it's no wonder that the issue has had such a popular run.

Here's a link to the site, in case you're interested.

http://sdpbookstore.com/bestsellers.htmhttp://sdpbookstore.com/coverofdarkness0512.jpg

Anyway, now that we've got all the warm fuzzy stuff out of the way, let's talk about DARPA, or as we will someday refer to them: The engineers of human extinction.

Not to take away from any of James Bonds's accomplishments, but in the early days it wasn't like he was having a difficult time tracking his enemies. If you recall from the halcyon Sean Connery/Roger Moore era, the agency Bond was more often than not in charge of foisting was named SPECTRE. Their CEO was a sinister bald mad scientist with hideous scars covering half of his face, who built massive laser cannons and weather machines inside volcanoes. I mean, if you're going to be that not subtle, then you can't blame anyone but yourself for the fact that even the boozed-up secret agent with the raging chlamydia eventually caught on to the fact that you're up to some shenanigans.

He and Kim Jong Il went to the same tailor. True story.

Nowadays, evil corporations aren't quite as obvious. Mad scientists look quite similar to the normal ones. And more often than not, you can't spot them just because they have sinister sounding names like SPECTRE, or Blackwater - wait that's a real one?

(Okay, scroll back up to that other picture and tell me they're not related somehow...)

Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked here. My point was there's this company with the almost adorable name of DARPA, and they seem to be building doomsday robots faster than you can say "Lock the doors and grab the shotgun, Betty-Sue". Take a gander at this:

That, my friends is their latest creation, the Cheetah. As its name implies, it moves horrifically fast. Here is a video of the thing sprinting along at an insane 18 mph. And that was 6 months ago. This week, the folks at DARPA announced that their latest model can outrun Usain Bolt . We can only imagine that whoever made that boast was stroking a cat while wearing a smile that didn't quite meet his diabolical, mismatched eyes.

Why even build something that can outrun a human being? Well, ask any mad scientist (or regular scientist) that question and you'll usually get some variation on the answer "We wanted to see if it could be done."

Oh well, it's a machine. They run on batteries, right? It's not like DARPA went ahead and built a robot that could, I don't know, feed itself. Right? Right???

Wrong.

That's another of DARPA's projects, called the Energy Autonomous Tactical Robot, or (I really wish I was fucking kidding about this, but I'm not) EATR for short. As in, "Eater". As in "I hunt down Biomass in the environment, and I fucking eat it."

The EATR manages to perform said task via those two appendages you see - the pincer and the uh... the chainsaw - which grab the targeted biomass and then chuck said biomass into the... uh, um, fuck... the fucking furnace at its tail end. Seriously, I wish I was capable of making something this scary up.

But what is "biomass", you ask? Well, according to the talking heads that handle DARPA's public affairs, for the moment it's not us. They promise. The biomass targeted by the EATRbots is decaying vegetable matter. Here is an article that DARPA CEO Harry Schoell hopes will clear the whole matter up, but if you ask me, the minute you have to coordinate a press release to deny the allegations that you've created an intelligent robot that feeds on human flesh, it may be time to rethink your company's "Vision Statement".