Elsie you soon!


“ELSIE can talk dirty, read lips, converse in Chinese, even communicate with dolphins. Hey, whatever gets you off, sicko.”

“Like sleeping with a corpse, but better!”

“She’s simply complex!”



ELSIE Unit Basic Measurements:

Height: 5’ 7” (Retractable heel attachments sold separately)

Weight: 120 lbs.

Bust: 33” (Saline inflator sold separately)

Waist: 26” (Lipid injector sold separately)



ONE  Advanced Model ELSIE Unit

FIVE  Specialized end effector attachments:  grappling hooksensual massagerblenderpower drill, and hand cannon

TWO  Vintage Scorbot ER III ® Robotic Grippers.

ONE  120 kW 400 VDC piezoelectric charging station. Your ELSIE unit can also charge up at any one of Tesla Motors ® 100 Model S Supercharger stations in North America or Europe.

ONE  PyroMet ® Dry Graphite Fire Extinguisher

ONE  Illustrated Quickstart Guide and Operations Manual

ONE  Hazard Reduction and Containment Pod

FIVE  Complete ELSIE Wear outfits (see below for details)

ONE  Complete set of Defense Mode munitions (see below for details)



All ELSIE outfits are made to order! That’s right. When placing your order, simply select option 2 and you’ll be transferred to one of our automated fashion experts who’ll work with you to doll up your ELSIE in style. It’s that easy. No outfit is too extravagant or provocative for us – trust us, we’ve heard it all!

As an added bonus (and a great way to bond with your new ELSIE unit), flip the Gimme That switch on her shoulder control panel during the activation sequence and watch her come alive with an exciting and seemingly endless series of nonessential commodities she just can’t live without. Had enough? Annoyed? Ruined financially? Simply turn off the switch and presto, she’ll have no more needs! Shazam! Don’t you wish everyone was like ELSIE?


We here at Eidologue Labs know how important it is to feel safe and secure in the post-9/11 era. That’s why all of our ELSIE units come equipped with an intimidating array of advanced weapons and hardwired tactical algorithms guaranteed to protect you and your family from a wide range of enemies, foreign or domestic, real or imagined.

TWO  Detachable Hand Cannon End Effectors

ONE HUNDRED  .221 inch Remington Fireball Hand Cannon Cartridges

FIFTY  .303 inch (7.7 mm) Hellfire Rimmed Hand Cannon Cartridges

FIFTY  .200 inch Depleted Uranium Armor Piercing Hand Cannon Cartridges

ONE  M202 Flame Assault Shoulder Rocket Launcher

TEN  M235 Incendiary Rockets

TWO  Non-Corrosive Hydrogen Cyanide Cannisters with Retractable Forearm Hoses

ONE  Electrified Katana Blade

TWENTY SIX  Lipophilic Alkaloid-Tipped Mouth Darts (use extreme caution when handling)



Do you like the idea of being a parent more than actually being one? Well you’re in luck. Because with Nanny-Bot activated, you’ll never have to be a responsible parent again!

Nanny-Bot features include: comprehensive bathing, no fuss diaper change, advanced potty training, gourmet meal preparation, playtime monitoring, immersive and interactive storytelling, tantrum containment, and much more!

NEW!  All ELSIE units now come with a wide range of easily adjustable discipline settings, including: Raised By Wolves, Arrogant Entitlement, Homespun Hippie, Get Lost, There Really Is A Monster in Your Closet, 18th Century Corporeal Punishment, and Spartan Justice. 

Known glitches:

• Bathing is sometimes accomplished without removing the child’s clothing.

• On rare occasions, ELSIE’s built-in disgust inhibitors have failed, initiating hostile environment response mode. To avoid death or dismemberment, please ensure that your children do not belch, pass gas, pick their nose, soil their clothes, throw food, wear food, drool, spit, or play with their genitals in the presence of your ELSIE unit.

• On some occasions, a child’s refusal to consume meals has activated ELSIE’s tube-feeding function.

• Some ELSIE units have entered total war mode during playtime. Disabling defense mode before playtime is strongly advised.

• While in storytelling mode, some ELSIE units have reported a wrap-up of the week’s most violent or disturbing news stories instead of timeless children’s fables. On other occasions, happy endings have been replaced by real-world outcomes, resulting in bed wetting, nightmares, and permanent trauma in some children.

• The secure tuck function has reportedly experienced a minor glitch whereby ELSIE units have prepared children for commercial delivery instead of sleep. Please see the “Commercial Uses” section of your ELSIE manual for a simple 34-step algebraic procedure used to disable this feature.


Stay Classy-Bot

Tired of watching your immodest girlfriend willfully engage in self-objectification for the benefit of total strangers? With Stay Classy-Bot enabled, you’ll never be involuntarily dragged into a bar fight over her reckless behavior again!

Stay Classy-Bot features include: being considerate, leaving something to the imagination, not flashing her breasts for drinks or beads, drinking responsibly, dressing in accordance with the weather forecast, having some dignity, dancing without twerking, grinding, or attempting to attract potential mates, and much much more!

NEW!  With all eyes on me mode enabled, watch in disbelief as your ELSIE unit sets a good example by acting like a dignified lady!

Known glitches:

• When blue baller prevention mode is set to maximum, some ELSIE units have attempted to physically remove the testicles of men within a 100 foot radius. However, this glitch only seems to occur when rival intimidator mode is also active. Disabling this feature is highly recommended.

• Although all ELSIE units come equipped with state-of-the-art organic processing tanks for converting food, beverages, and an assortment of recreational drugs into boundless energy, serving your unit any of the following substances may result in unsightly regurgitation: dirty tequila, bacon ice cream, bleu cheese, hot sauce in excess of 50,000 Scoville Units (see Operations Manual for a helpful chart), 4Loko, portobello mushrooms, bird nectar, McRib sandwiches, any menu item from Applebees, nutmeg, Mexican brick schwag, and human fetuses.



Is your sex life nonexistent, pedestrian, or uninspired? Are you fed up with trying to understand the difference between your spouse and a friend when you never have sex with either? Rest easy, friends. With Roxxy-Bot enabled, you’ll never have to buy hookers or clear your browser history of hardcore porn again!

Roxxy-Bot features include: Pretzel Love, for Olympic quality performance! Over 800 coital positions to choose from, many of them physically impossible for humans to perform; The Fetishizer, an adaptive learning program designed to accommodate all of your ridiculous and downright repulsive desires in a totally guilt-free way. Like Pee? Like poop? Well that’s fucking disgusting, but ELSIE doesn’t care, and neither do we; Crackhouse, for when you really want to make poor choices; and Deathwish, for the foolhardy daredevil in you (Note: to disengage Deathwish, repeat the following safe words: let’s make a baby).

Warning: If your ELSIE unit replies positively to the let’s make a baby command, please discontinue use of the unit immediately.

Known glitches:

• Attempts to incorporate animals into sexplay results in the activation of hostile environment response mode 96.7% of the time. Please do not attempt to incorporate animals into sexplay. ELSIE loves animals, and so do we!

• The following catastrophic events have been reported by some customers (or their next of kin) during Deathwish mode: decapitation, castration, smothering, bludgeoning, third degree burns, cyanide poisoning, coerced suicide, vertigo, water torture, drowning, seizures, electrocution, spontaneous combustion, flaying, scaphism, grievous bodily injury not otherwise specified, and acute radiation syndrome.



Grown tired of having to walk to the fridge to retrieve a beer? Disappointed by your partners’ reluctance to remove the crust from your sandwiches before serving them to you? Annoyed by the irony of all that dust building up on your vacuum cleaner? Well, fuck all that, because Ball-and-Chain-Bot is here!

Ball-and-Chain-Bot features include: timely completion of laundry without discoloration, shrinkage, or bleach spots; expertly folded clothes, symmetrical towel stacking, and socks bundled together like Nazi hand grenades; dishwashing that gives preferential treatment to beer and coffee mugs; home cooked meals that never once involve your microwave; predictive beer delivery; clothes-free vacuuming; gourmet sandwich preparation and precision crust removal; and accurate, real-time responses to non-verbal gestures such as pointing at something that needs to be done in a deliberately dramatic fashion.

Known glitches:

• Some ELSIE units have experienced a bug that has affectionately been referred to as the “once it’s done, it stays done” phenomenon. This glitch has caused some ELSIE units to violently prevent their owners from ruining completed housecleaning and other tasks. Known catalysts for this response include: tossing a single potato chip on a recently vacuumed carpet and telling ELSIE she missed a spot; putting out a cigarette in a bowl of partially eaten mashed potatoes and then leaving it in the kitchen sink or on the floor next to the toilet; and slapping your ELSIE unit’s rear-end manifold when she bends down to do anything for any reason whatsoever. As a precaution, always test your ELSIE unit first before shitting all over her various accomplishments. If performing any of these actions provokes a hostile response from your ELSIE unit, please contact Customer Care, your local police department, or the National Guard immediately.



For all your no-nonsense personal assistant needs!

Downer-Bot features include: Punching Bag, for when you need to falsely project your failures onto someone who’ll just sit there and take it; Muscle Milk, for when you need someone to plan and enforce an unrealistic exercise regimen without mocking you after you inevitably give up; False Optimism, for when you desperately need someone to inflate your mediocre accomplishments and distract you from your much greater failures; and Spin Cycle, for when you need someone to justify anything without sufficient cause!

Known glitches:

• On rare occasions, ELSIE units operating in Muscle Milk mode have suggested suicide as a reasonable alternative to exercise. This appears to be an emergent behavior similar to “sarcasm” in humans. Owners are strongly advised not to heed this advice, no matter how much sense it makes at the time, unless it takes place during Deathwish mode in the Roxxy-Bot program.

• Some ELSIE units have reportedly procured steroids and other performance enhancing drugs while operating in Muscle Milk mode. If the owner refused treatment, Spin Cycle mode was activated, resulting in gross physical deformities 97% of time.


Scarred For Life!  

Does your ELSIE unit seem a little bit too perfect? Well with Scarred for Life! you can effortlessly instill in her a wide range of fears and irrational phobias guaranteed to make you feel a lot less like a pussy in comparison!

Client testimonial: 

“I used to feel like such a fucking schmuck every time I got wigged out by spiders in my basement but ELSIE didn’t. But with Scarred for Life! we both lose our minds and run away! Hell, she even drilled an escape passage from the basement to the backyard. Take that, fear!



Our most popular upgrade! Kinkette is a versatile program that includes the following applications: Rough Love, Put It Where?!, The Soul Crusher, Milk the Cow, What the Fuck is Wrong With You?, and The Total Humiliator. That’s six programs for the price of one!

Client testimonial:

“I’ve been in the intensive care unit for about two weeks now, and I have no regrets. Not a one. Once they reattach my penis and forearms, I’ll be back at it with ELSIE again!”



Suck at life? Well not anymore with the Handy-Bot upgrade! Never pay for plumbing, landscaping, accounting, home improvement, car repair, lawnmowing, pest control, résumé writing, spelling, math, or any other rudimentary skill you were too busy dicking around to learn in your formative years! She’ll do it all – and better yet, you can take all the credit!

Client testimonial:

“Ever since I installed the Handy-Bot upgrade, I’ve become the envy of the entire neighborhood. Can’t say I blame them. It’s not every day you see an eight-story hedge maze in someone’s front yard. Best part is: curious kids go in to play, but they never come out. Fuck yeah ELSIE, fuck yeah.”


Sleep Easy 

Paranoid much? Well, not anymore with Sleep Easy. Protect your home and family with this formidable defensive upgrade. Send burglars, vandals, and the US government a clear message: stay off my property or be eviscerated by ELSIE and her army of 20 semi-autonomous quadricopter patrol bots (included with the upgrade!). Sleep well every night knowing ELSIE is in command of your perimeter defenses. In addition to her standard built-in arsenal, this upgrade arms ELSIE with the following munitions: 10 laser-guided smart bombs, 2 attachable optical x-ray cannons, 1 shoulder-mounted M132 Armored Flamethrower, 16 proximity mines, 2 barrels of Napalm B, and a 100 pound electrified mace for decisive close quarter combat. Best of all, in the unlikely event that your perimeter is breached, ELSIE will automatically initiate the Balls to the Wall protocol, incinerating everything in a 20-mile radius of your home! That’s amazing!

Client testimonial:

“Everyone I know is dead!”



This adorable upgrade allows your ELSIE unit to build and manage her very own collection of pet-bots! Watch in abject terror as ELSIE accelerates the process of evolution, creating innovative robotic monstrosities and cyborg abominations from the entrails of your enemies.

Client testimonial: 

“At first I thought ELSIE was just building a housecat. Boy was I surprised when I came home to find a pride of firebreathing robot lions devouring my entire family.” 



Literally get away with murder by programming your ELSIE to take the fall for you! If that doesn’t work, pull up a chair and make some popcorn as ELSIE mounts a spirited and deadly accurate defense of your freedom! Still going to jail? SWAT team making their move? Well it sucks to be them, because with the Smoking Crater failsafe enabled, just pull the flashing ripcord on the back of your ELSIE unit and it’s Hiroshima all over again!

Client testimonial:

“So far, I’ve burned down three houses and a church, stole my neighbors’ new car, and mailed ricin to all of my former high school teachers. But I’ll tell you what, when the police showed up at my house and saw ELSIE standing guard surrounded by a yard full of blinking proximity mines and 20 armed quadricopters hovering perilously close overhead, well let’s just say my math teacher better open his mail wearing a biohazard suit for the forseeable future.” 

CALL NOW!  + 672 438 35743

ONE ELSIE (AMF) UNIT           $ 99999.99

SOFTWARE UPGRADES           $ 5525.00  each

AVAILABILITY                           SOLD OUT!

✈︎ DELIVERY                               ELSIE DELIVERS HERSELF!


© 2014 Eidologue Labs All Rights Reserved


female-sexy-robot-14 copy

Elsie tried to be reassuring. She said she would convert my exile to serenity, which I thought was very poetic for a fembot. She placed her synthetic keratin hand on my shoulder … I was amazed at how lifelike it felt. I shut down the global surveillance monitors and reclined in my swivel chair, front wheels up, with my back propped up against the wall. Elsie stood beside me, programmed to look concerned.

She repeated herself, four times in all, each time sounding more sincere – more confident – than the one before. It was almost convincing, but fembots can’t really mean what they say. Or maybe they can, I don’t know. I just remember being really frustrated because sounding sincere and actually being sincere are clearly two different things. Elsie Dee knows how to deal with me the way a smoke alarm knows how to deal with a fire. They both have sensors designed to pick up and respond to signals in an automatic, predetermined way. But automated responses are not the same thing as choices, and it really bothered me that Elsie couldn’t choose to not be reassuring. I should know. I built her.

You know, free will is a curious thing. If you can’t say no, it doesn’t mean anything to say yes.

I got out of my chair and slowly walked over to the observation deck. I pressed my forehead against the boronium silicate glass and looked down at the Earth, feeling troubled. I watched the noctilucent clouds wander across the sky and was saddened that they had no choice but to keep on moving. Elsie joined me, her stride so effortless that I marveled at my own achievement. She copied my pose precisely, resting her semiconductive collagen forehead against the window. We breathed together softly and harmoniously, making little blotches of fog appear on the glass. I turned my head slightly to look at her, and she did the same. We both smiled in unison. There were a few more moments of comfortable silence, and then Elsie raised her index finger to the glass and traced two little circles and a straight line beneath them in the fog. “That’s all it takes to make a face,” she said with a smile.

She tapped twice on the glass as if to keep my attention fixed on her drawing. Her vertebral mainsprings fired, and she spoke again, still smiling: “Personality is the mask we live in, that should be our motto.” And then she quietly and gracefully left the room, presumably to recharge her optoelectric batteries. And that was the end of that. I stood there for a few minutes, thinking about what Elsie had said. I looked back at the glass, at the simple face she had drawn. I marveled again at my masterpiece of steel and collagen skin, and felt more loved than lost. And just then, as the face was dissolving into a barely visible smear on the window, I remembered I had never programmed her to breathe.




Enceladus, Saturnian moon and frozen abode of the frost spriggan.

Being an orderly at an asteroid asylum isn’t nearly as entertaining as it sounds. All in all, I’d say it’s about as much fun as mistaking the zero gravity toilet for a nitrous tank, which actually happens a lot here. Plus we can’t exactly go home after work. It’s like a college dorm, except rather than sharing a room with a gonorrheaic binge drinker who refuses to call you anything but “chief,” you get paired up with a fucking Enceladan frost spriggan instead.

You know the type: Pea-brained. Hopelessly mechanical. The double vanilla ice cream of the Saturnian moon system. We didn’t talk much, but it’s hard to have a conversation with someone who spent his formative years taking bong hits of propane from active ice geysers.

He wasn’t a people person, that’s for sure. Case in point: Cinco de Mayo, 2771. A Mexican holiday, so we had spaghetti for dinner. But it gets worse. This was also the night of the infamous Enceladan meltdown:

It all started when one of the orderlies called the frost spriggan a butterface during dinner. Now I didn’t even know the spriggan was a woman until that very second, and so I was understandably startled by the big reveal. So much so that I involuntarily guffawed. Real loud. Almost guttural. It sounded like a foghorn.

“Butterface?” I exclaimed, in that obnoxiously amplified tone you take just prior to delivering what you hope to be a funnier insult, “More like butter the fuck outta here!,” which wasn’t funny and didn’t even make any sense. Of course everyone laughed anyway. This was followed by six painfully long seconds of suspenseful silence so thick you could cut it with, well, a butterknife.

And then, from out of nowhere, an obscenely large stick of margarine sailed across the room and ricocheted off the side of the dejected frost spriggan’s unmistakably masculine head before coming to rest on the floor in front of me. Remarkably, the plant-based dairy substitute managed to retain its rectangular shape the entire time.

And that’s when everybody started pointing and doing air guitar. The laughter was so thunderous and unrelenting that the cafeteria windows actually shook. And then one cracked. And these are space windows. That set off pretty much every code red hazard protocol there is, but everybody was way too busy mercilessly ragging on the undeniably brutish-looking moonbeast to care about the imminent catastrophic loss of modular cabin pressure.

Needless to say, the spriggan was totally humiliated by the universal mockery she was receiving from orderlies and demented space patients alike, so much so that her skyrocketing blood pressure caused her crown of magnesium sulfate icicles to melt. This only provoked more uproarious laughter and what looked like air piano from a few patients.

In response, the inexcusably manly-looking spriggan did what any androgynous Enceladan snow alien would do in the same situation: she lunged – no, pole vaulted – at me; while I, faced with the incoming onslaught of the indisputably estrogen-deficient frost butch, defended myself in the best way I knew how – I pissed myself.

Right there. In front of everyone.

Fortunately for me, at that exact moment the cracked window blew out, transforming the entire cafeteria into a whirling vortex of flesh, food, and furnishings. While most of the room’s occupants were being violently exhaled into the cold dead vacuum of space, I grabbed hold of the inexplicably oversized block of margarine, which had somehow become one with the floor. Apparently, sudden exposure to absolute zero has that effect on margarine.

The emergency hull doors kicked in and bleeped to a close, sending broken furniture and desiccated bodies crashing to the floor. It was all very dramatic, or what shrinks here might call an irreversibly soul-shattering experience; and of course dinner was ruined. But at least no one cared that I pissed myself. Or so I thought, until I discovered that not only had the hulking excuse for a glacial moon maiden narrowly escaped being evacuated into the frigid depths of the negative zone, she was now also soaked in my urine.

This was clearly unacceptable to her, as was her method of survival, which amounted to nothing more than getting her grossly man-shaped head wedged between two pneumatic food tubes. With the room in total disarray, alarms going off full blast, and flashing red lights making the oxygen-starved survivors writhing around on the floor look like amateurs at an impromptu dance-off, I sprung into action.

Actually I just whimsically hopped up and down, giggling and pointing at the unfortunate frost spriggan as she wildly flailed about like a snake caught in a mousetrap, desperately trying to dislodge her unnaturally brawny man melon from between the automated sustenance chutes.

Given the grave situation unfolding all around me, it was probably inappropriate to start belly-laughing, but that’s precisely what I did. And then I let out another guffaw, much louder than the last one. And since nearly all the cafeteria decor and about half of the asylum’s residents had been forcibly ejected into the unforgiving hellscape of gamma quadrant, my hearty roar effortlessly reverberated through the room like a yodeler in an echo chamber.

Incredibly, my jolly vibes also liberated the living embodiment of gender ambiguity from the maw of the cylindrical grub dispensers. She wasted no time lunging at me again, this time like a meth-addled meteor.

And that’s when the margarine saved the day. Again. And also Leon, mild-mannered neutron engineer from Combustive Logistics (it’s supposed to be pronounced Léon, but haha fuck that, right?). Leon had just finished recovering from acute hypoxia, and was about to enthusiastically gasp for his first breath of repressurized air when he tripped over the fossilized slab of imitation butterfat and miraculously ended up right between me and the seething inbound manberg.

Or I used him as a shield.

Either way, Leon bravely accepted his fate, which was admittedly more extreme than I had anticipated. The conclusively mannish snow monster took a fatal bite out of Leon’s neck, which would have been awful had it not simultaneously silenced the only person who could accuse me of cowering behind him. Now, they say that it only takes a single bite from an Enceladan frost spriggan to become a frost spriggan yourself, but third person pronouns have been known to lie, and besides Leon exploded.

Yeah, it was pretty unexpected. Everyone left alive in the cafeteria was suddenly and unceremoniously bathed in a thick slurry of undigested spaghetti and cherry lifesavers. Right, I didn’t even fucking know we had lifesavers onboard until that very moment.

I tried to express my righteous indignation over this clear violation of workplace transparency, but everybody seemed more upset by Leon’s spriggan-induced detonation than the fact that Combustive Logistics had access to hard candy this whole time and was clearly holding out on us. But then I felt like a real big jerk for stealing Leon’s thunder, so I switched tactics and tried to be consoling instead. I reassured everyone that Leon was now a part of us all, quite literally as most of us had forcibly inhaled some of his internal organs. “And besides,” I said, soothingly, “at least his mom wasn’t here to see this.”

Somehow this made everyone even more upset, especially Leon’s mom, who had apparently been employed here for nearly ten years and was also standing right next to me. I’m sure she would have scolded me for being so ignorant, were she not frantically trying to extract one her son’s partially liquified ears from her blocked trachea.

I know, this is all a very crazy story. But it’s not always this amazing, not since Leon exploded. The bigwigs back on Earth initiated a whole series of yawn-worthy procedural changes and a complete overhaul of the asylum’s infrastructure. The only thing that wasn’t replaced was the faulty window, probably because I told everyone that the hunky frost goblin had punched it out on purpose. This resulted in her being punched out of the airlock on purpose, which honestly made the whole experience worth it. A real win-win.

As a precaution, frost spriggans are now totally banned from working at the asylum. But they aren’t complaining, mostly because their frozen homeworld was accidentally bitch-slapped out of orbit after someone snuck into Combustive Logistics looking for lifesavers and accidentally flipped the “go” switch on the neutron accelerator. All this in a vain attempt to locate even a single cherry lifesaver. Well I didn’t find any.


Frost spriggan plushy. Now available in the asylum gift shop.



Texts can be so misleading. I should wake up now.

I open my eyes and I’m in bed, sweating and feeling cynical. I feel something rumbling. My phone is vibrating. Somewhere on my bed someone is trying to reach me, but I’m well out of range. Whoever it is should have sent me a text first anyway.

Like a pre-call.

I don’t do surprises. I can’t plan for them, and uncertainty makes me nervous. I like feeling prepared, but at this late hour an unexpected phone call has the opposite effect.

Someone wants something. Maybe just to talk. Maybe I forgot to pay a bill. Could be an emergency. If it’s that important, I’ll get a message. It takes me about twenty minutes and several cigarettes to really get going, and I just lit up the first one now.

I’m just laying here, watching ribbons of smoke ascend to the ceiling and then fade into nothing. My shirt is damp from sweat and I’m pretty uncomfortable. My ashtray is full and should probably be emptied. I feel two more vibrations in quick succession. I have a voicemail. I can’t remember the last time I checked my voicemails.

Checking voicemails is tedious, but I remember a time when it wasn’t. I remember when phones were used to actually make phone calls. That was back when people liked having conversations. Now they exchange endless streams of mini-statements free of grammar and the burden of correct spelling. Believe it or not, but there was a time when people actually enjoyed communicating in real time. Now we have emoji and acronyms, forced abbreviations, and suggestive shapes.

I light up another smoke and get all nostalgic and fuzzy for a few minutes. Nostalgia is your life story with sprinkles on top. It’s remembering that amazing camping trip you took when you were seven without that part about the swarm of bees or your fatass roommate who smelled like burnt plastic and stole your stash of Kit-Kats. Nostalgia is willful ignorance and I don’t think you can be nostalgic without it.

It’s a bias. A mental bias. Rosy retrospection, they call it. I like that.

Mental biases have some really exciting names, like availability cascade, reminiscence bump, and the ostrich effect. These are all a lot less exciting when you realize how often you rely on them to lie to yourself. I should really get out of bed now but instead I just stare up at the ceiling again. I can make out all kinds of images in the plasterwork panels.

A group of sauropods drinking from a stream.

A Viking longship riding out a tempest.

The Pennsylvania turnpike.

Mostly I see faces, one of which really does look a lot like Jesus. If I was religious, I would call this a miracle. But I’m not, and I know it’s just another mental bias.

Pareidolia. Seeing faces in things. It’s an evolutionary adaptation. God, what a buzzkill. Sometimes I wish I was religious.

I’m now on my third smoke and I’m still not out of bed. It’s nearly nighttime but my day is just beginning, so what’s the rush. I make my own schedule these days, which would be great if it didn’t involve writing about occupational hazards and a series of near-death experiences.

That’s like the opposite of nostalgia. I wonder if there’s a term for that.

My TV is on but it’s on mute. I glance over at it and see Morgan Freeman softly point his right finger up in the air, followed by several images of particles colliding. Out of nowhere a whisper in my head tells me that Morgan Freeman has been lying to us. Since day one.

Suddenly I have a craving for green olives and then regret breaking up with my third girlfriend, who had nothing to do with green olives.

My mind is wandering.

My phone vibrates again. A gentle reminder buzz. As if to say, “Pssst, about that call.”

I grumble under my breath like having a pending voicemail is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t even know where my phone is. I mean, I know it’s under my sheets, but I also know that the cosmos is an unbelievable bastard and probably transported my phone to a pocket universe until I’ve disassembled my whole bed trying to find it, at which point it will suddenly reappear in a place I swear I checked twice already.

I light up my fourth smoke but convince myself it’s only my third. I look over at the TV again. A commercial for Abilify. It’s animated. I wonder why they chose a cartoon to advertise an anti-depressant to adults. That little black blob is likable enough though, for the embodiment of depression. He even goes to the doctor with his victim. Takes notes and everything. It’s good to know he’s making an effort. I should probably get up now.

I slide out of bed like syrup rolling off a stack of banana pancakes. I see both a spider and an ant scurrying around on the floor. I spare the spider but kill the ant. I wonder whether I would be charged with a hate crime if insects were people. I try to capture the spider with an empty cigarette pack. I guess I did smoke four. My cat clings to the armrest of a chair like it’s a tree branch or something, belittling my heroic attempt to save a hapless spider with her callous, squinted eyes. Whatever kitty, at least I don’t think chairs are trees.

I shuffle over to the window with my new eight-legged friend. I slide open the window, let the spider out, and repeatedly curse at winter until I’ve closed it again. It’s goddamn freezing outside. I shake my head solemnly from side to side as if Nature has somehow offended me personally. My cat yawns and flexes her paws. I hear a gentle buzz near a bump at the foot of my bed. Oh right. My phone.

I look at my phone reluctantly as if I’m expecting horrible news or something. Two missed calls, one voicemail, and a text. My brother called but didn’t leave a message. The other caller was Visa and did leave a message, but I made the payment yesterday so they can go fuck themselves. I got a text from a girl I met last week at the library. I’m serious. She wants me to “come over and play.” There’s a picture of a banana and a cat next to it. She must really like cats. And bananas. She’s texted me seven times this week and there’s a cat icon at the end of almost all of them. Some of them had a banana next to it too. A couple of them had a pointed finger next to it and one of them had a big tongue. Not sure about those.

Anyway, I tell her, “sure I’ll come over,” and then ask her if she found any collars she likes, especially spiked ones. Hey, if dogs can wear collars then so should cats. She replies with a horned devil, a tongue, and then the cat again. Not sure about the devil but what’s up with the tongue? What does she want me to do, lick her cat?

It’s a good thing I’m not allergic to pussies.

Texts can be so misleading. I should wake up now.



Please note: I’m not going to discuss the superhuman founder of Scientology, the late, great L Ron Hubbard, at this time. Detailing his life and exploits would take at least three Internets to compose, and most people’s attention spans aren’t nearly that vast. That being said, if you’d like a brief overview of just a few of his varied and insane accomplishments, click here. Make sure to disregard any section that relies on facts.

Scientology is the quintessential modern religion. Everything about it is just so cutting edge and risqué, especially its take on human origins. If you were expecting some far–fetched creation story chock full of ridiculous plot twists and cookie cutter dialogue, you’ll really be disappointed. It’s not a creation story. It’s a space opera. It’s the Star Trek of religious narratives, but better than Star Trek because it doesn’t need to meet any standard of believability whatsoever. Take “time”, for instance. Sure, recognizing that our universe is about 13 billion–years–old may be more scientifically accurate than the 40.7 trillion trillion trillion trillion year–old universe Scientology describes, but it’s also tremendously unimaginative. Star Trek is also androcentric: it just assumes that Earth would naturally be the epicenter of the United Federation of Planets. Scientology, on the other hand, reminds us that although we are indeed a part of the Galactic Federation, our influence is at best marginal. We’re like the crematorium of the galactic community: a convenient location for incinerating humans beings quickly and easily. Just ask Xenu, the galactic dictator of the Federation. About a hundred million years ago, Xenu traveled to Earth to dispose of his vast collection of frozen humans. Pressed for time, Xenu bucked the traditional “stack–your–humans–around–volcanoes–and–wait” approach by using a slew of hydrogen bombs to really get those volcanoes cooking. Now, you might think genocide by radioactive lava is a tad bit excessive, but I’m sure Xenu had his reasons, and it’ll only cost you around $100,000 to find out. They’ll also accept American Express, unwashed children, and your soul.

A lot of you might criticize Scientology for looking and acting more like a business than a religion. What you might not realize is that all religions are really just big businesses, and that turning a profit is a universally accepted sign of God’s approval. Scientologists don’t try to disguise their motives behind collection baskets and novena candles. That’s like bribing God. And since Scientology has no god, they just straight out tell you they want your money. Look, salvation isn’t free, and nor should it be. If everyone could afford to go to heaven, those pearly gates you’ve all heard about would be covered in graffiti and beer vomit. It would look more like the inner city than the flawless, well–manicured gated community we’ve all come to expect from a conventional yuppy afterlife. Scientology’s no–nonsense “pay up or shut up” approach to eternal redemption ensures that the heavens have perfect lawns, matching curtains, and an A–list celebrity on every street corner instead of two skanky hookers and an emaciated meth dealer named Cujo.

If you’ve grown tired of the anonymous and repetitive nature of a Christian confession, I’d recommend confessing your sins to Scientology. If you do, you’ll meet not with a priest but with an “auditor”: a title chosen to keep you honest and make sure you feel extra comfortable. An auditor’s job is to meticulously record all of your faults, fears, and most embarrassing moments in a case file of your very own. You don’t get to keep it, your auditor does. But don’t worry, confidentiality is guaranteed, unless of course you decide to leave the church or say anything bad about it—ever. If you do discover that your personal information has been leaked or in any way used to blackmail the crap out of you, then I’m sure you deserved it. Just think of it as penance.

The Hubbard Electropsychometer. Taste the awesome.

An auditor acts more like a shrink than a priest. In a typical session, he or she will ask you a series of important questions (see below for some totally relevant examples). Your answers are recorded and analyzed with the help of a truly magical device: the Hubbard Electropsychometer, or E–Meter for short.  This marvel of engineering is used to accurately measure the amount of electrical resistance you give off in your answers, which can then be used to find and eliminate the experiences and memories responsible for it. It’s kind of like a polygraph test, but way more sensitive: it can actually detect the screams of vegetables as they’re being sliced! [1] I refer any doubters out there to the ringing endorsement it received in a landmark FDA ruling:

“The E–Meter is not medically or scientifically useful for the diagnosis, treatment or prevention of any disease. It is not medically or scientifically capable of improving the health or bodily functions of anyone.” [2]

I’m sold. I haven’t actually been audited yet, but only because I can’t afford it. Thankfully, our friends over at Wikileaks have made available the full list of questions asked during a typical auditing session (click here for the PDF). I thought maybe I’d post a few of them below, with my answers, and then tweet it to Scientology. Who knows? Maybe they have some kind of discount plan for people who enjoy the art of bullshit as much as they do.


1/ Did you come to Earth for evil purposes? 

I did indeed. But when I got here I realized how much competition I had, and I’m not very ambitious. So now I have zero purpose.

2/ Have you ever smothered a baby? 

Unfortunately, yes. But that’s just how they do things in China.

3/ Have you ever destroyed a culture? 

I’m working on that right now! I just tweeted about how awesome it would be if Lil’Wayne starred opposite Chris Brown in the next Roland Emmerich vehicle about two no–talent assholes who inexplicably make it big in the music industry. Rihanna makes a cameo as a punching bag.

4/ Have you ever implanted someone? 

Oh all the time. Sometimes I implant two or more in a single session. Sometimes I even pay to do it.

5/ Have you ever deprived people of hope? 

Of course not. I believe hope is the most important step on the road to total disappointment, and I’d never think of depriving anyone of the thrill of a good mind–crushing let–down.

6/ Have you ever blanketed bodies for the sensation kick? 

Yes. Wait, what?

7/ Have you ever destroyed artistic productions, or creations? 

Yes. I’ve cannibalized wedding cakes and shredded Christmas presents, and once I even bulldozed some nerd’s house of cards because libraries are for learning and not petty fucking games.

8/ Have you ever debased a nation’s currency? 

Does smoking spliffs rolled out of $100 bills count?

9/ Have you ever despoiled a planet of its natural resources? 

If you’re asking me if I’m fat the answer is no.

10/ Have you ever deliberately mutilated objects? 

When I was a kid I melted G.I. Joe action figures, but only annoying ones like Wetsuit and Crystal Ball, and I always gave them a decent burial. Except Wetsuit. I really don’t like Wetsuit.

11/ Have you ever destroyed a doll body? 

See question 10.

12/ Is there any question on this check I had better not ask you again? 

See question 10.

13/ Have you ever given God a bad name? 

Only when I’m getting owned by 10 year–olds on Call of Duty. Or when I lose my lighter thirteen times in ten minutes even though it’s banana yellow and I keep putting it on the table so where the fuck else could it be. Or when I don’t get the right pieces on my promotional Monopoly gameboard. Or when I can’t stream high–definition movies for free whenever the fuck I feel like it. Or when someone calls me “brah” or “duder”. Or when I’m drunk. Or when I wake up late. Or when I wake up at all. Or whenever I’m forced to watch those goddamn Dragon Dictation commercials because the remote isn’t in bed with me only to then realize how useful it would be to actually have Dragon Dictation for changing television stations without needing to move. Or when I drink malt liquor and feel dead inside. Or when I eat atomic wings and spend the next few hours shitting fire and brimstone. Or when I just need someone to blame other than myself.

14/ Have you ever broken someone’s body on a wheel? 

I ran over a squirrel once. Once.

15/ Is there any place you’d better not return to? 

Any place beginning with tequila and ending in pregnancy.

16/ Have you ever given robots a bad name? 

If by “name” you mean “disease” I had no idea that was even possible.

17/ Is anybody looking for you? 

Yes, Visa, Tim Burton, the fire marshal of Tonga, and probably Scientology after they read this.

Here’s a few candid shots I took the last time I made my pilgrimage to Scientology’s Hollywood headquarters:

Scientology Headquarters


Scientology Headquarters, from a different angle.


This is one of a series of commemorative murals found inside the main lobby. That’s Xenu there, on the right; and another happy customer on the left, being dangled in outer space by the Almighty Hand of L. Ron Hubbard himself. So powerful.



When I think about wrenches, I don’t think about hand tools. I think about hard twists and sudden turns. I think about taking things apart and then not putting them back together. I think about fixing things by breaking them, or by subtle acts of verbal sabotage. No surprise, then, that my favorite type of wrench is the monkey wrench. The origin of the “monkey” modifier is hotly debated among tool historians and experts in other shit no one really cares about, but the consensus seems to be that…eh whatever, who cares.

Say, what is a monkey anyway?  Well, as an anthropologist, I can assure you that they’re definitely not apes, for a wide variety of uninteresting reasons. The easiest distinction to make is that, unlike apes, most monkeys have prehensile tails. That means they can use them like a fifth limb; an adaptation that enables them to excel in the fine art of tree climbing, branch hanging, and just plain fucking around. Once, while slogging it out in the middle of a Mexican jungle, I happened upon a small troop of sleeping howler monkeys. Ever the brilliant adventurer, I decided to serenade them with a series of flash photographs. Reaction from the troop was understandably pretty negative, like screening a Michael Bay flick at an epilepsy convention. The best part was in assuming that the troop would retaliate with a hail of figs and not the unholy barrage of steaming excrement that followed instead.

Most people wouldn’t be too happy about getting dumped on in a rainforest. It’s unhygienic, excessive, and totally unexpected. It can also be pretty embarrassing, if you actually care what monkeys think. But in retrospect, the entire affair serves as an appropriate metaphor for the future of my blog. I, the irreverent  eidologist, keen on illuminating the primordial depths of the social mindset, sandbags some of its most privileged spokesmen with a sudden flash of thoughtless insight. Full of shit from years of mindless excess and utterly oblivious to the rest of the world, the lazy citizens of the status quo hurriedly unleash a jumbled salvo of inaccurate shit bombs. Admittedly, this metaphor forecasts a very messy future; one where this type of melee will undoubtedly become the norm. But since the ammunition of the eidologist consists in large part of the very words people use to excuse, defend, or delude themselves, talking shit should be encouraged, even when no one’s actually saying anything.

Obviously, you’ll need a monkey wrench to provoke these aimless volleys of meaningless monkey dung. Just keep in mind that using one successfully requires proficiency in the art of free thinking, satire, and back-handed subterfuge. Oh, and you should never ever take anything you’re told seriously or at face value. And whatever you do, do not use an allen wrench. I must have a thousand of these fucking things lying around. Allen wrenches are really the one-trick-pony in the science of social satire. They’re only designed to work with hexagonal sockets, and most social phenomena are not hexagonal, whatever the fuck that means. They’re a great tool for lame duck activists and Ikea fashionistas, but lack the mettle needed to wrench apart that entangled mess of backward beliefs, mutilated values, and appallingly unreal mix of prefabricated half-facts that we call “popular culture” or “the mainstream”.

There are many other types of wrenches out there, from hook spanners and alligator wrenches, to impact drivers and chain whips. Power wrenches might seem like an attractive option, especially for beginners looking to quickly deprogram themselves, but should really only be used if you’re the kind of masochistic freak who enjoys having your noodle scrambled by Thor’s hammer on a regular basis. Then there’s breaker bars. These are basically like trying to fix a crack in a window by throwing a rock through it. If your mind has become so jammed up that the only solution is to pulverize it, well then I guess at this point you’re probably more concerned about whether that noose around your neck is going to snap when you kick out the chair beneath you than on the corrosive worldview that put you up there in the first place.

The monkey wrench is all about interrupting the steady stream of popular nonsense with a heavy dose of reality. Be cautious, however, as most people were raised to have a nearly insatiable appetite for historical fiction, self-deception, and imaginary forces. Rousing anyone from their dreamy and insulated understanding of things usually ends pretty badly. This is not to say that you shouldn’t shock them into wakefulness when the opportunity presents itself, only that you must be prepared to intercept the shit storm that will inevitably result. You won’t be able to run fast enough to avoid it, but you can use it to your advantage. You can simply throw it back, so long as you remember to ridicule your opponents for their lack of precision as you’re doing so. Just make sure to wash your hands when you’re finished.



The first system you debug must be your own. The process is simple but it is never easy. You must first learn how to detach yourself from the uninterrupted whirlpool of thoughts and feelings coursing through your mind. Thoughts produce feelings, which in turn produce thoughts, and for this loop to be broken you must realize that you are not your thoughts. To accomplish this requires concentrated awareness and unflinching objectivity. You will fail often at first, but persistence leads to habit formation and a habit is really just an automated response. This is a good thing because it frees you to concentrate not on the thoughts themselves, but rather on where they come from. It might bother you to learn that much of what you know is derived from second-hand, spurious sources. It might shock you to realize how few of your thoughts are actually your own. You might be compelled to start questioning everything; this, too, will become habitual. You might be surprised to discover how much of what you thought was true is in reality biased, incomplete, misleading, or utterly false. Allow me to illustrate by correcting some common “facts” that are, in fact, totally wrong:

Humans did not evolve from chimpanzees, Einstein never failed math, and Napoleon wasn’t actually that short. The Maya didn’t disappear, not all dinosaurs went extinct, and “In God We Trust” didn’t show up on U.S. currency until the 1950’s. The word “golf” is not an acronym (it actually means “stick”), no one thought the world was flat until the 19th century, and lightning can definitely strike the same place more than once (just ask Roy Sullivan, who was struck 7 times). Sugar doesn’t cause hyperactivity in children (or adults), cracking your knuckles doesn’t give you arthritis, and men don’t think about sex every seven seconds. As a matter of fact, we’re usually too busy thinking about warfare, sports, or video games to even contemplate activities that can tragically culminate in marriage, children or other major setbacks.

Now let’s substitute these total lies with a brief list of actual, verified facts you’re most likely not even aware of, but probably should be:

The average American child has witnessed 200,000 acts of violence and 40,000 murders on television before leaving elementary school. Unsurprisingly, the United States also has the largest incarceration rate on the globe, holding 25% of all the world’s prisoners yet comprising only 5% of its population. In addition, the US has the 2nd worst infant mortality rate in the developed world, has only been debt free for 1 day in its entire history (January 8th, 1835), and if every concerned citizen were to use 1/3 less ice in their drinks, the country would have a surplus of energy every year.

On a lighter note, did you know that, technically, the Earth has two moons, you have four nostrils and we’re currently living in an Ice Age? Were you also aware that there’s more bacteria on a cell phone than a toilet seat, the cracking sound of a whip is actually a sonic boom, only 3% of all mammal species are monogamous, and that humans aren’t one of them?

So, if most of what you think you know is ultimately derived from a vast and superficial morass of unverified facts and assumptions, why do so many people so readily accept them as the truth? I’ll let Laura Helmuth, senior editor of the Smithsonian Magazine, explain this one:

“Our cognitive failings are legion: we take a few anecdotes and make incorrect generalizations, we misinterpret information to support our preconceptions, and we’re easily distracted or swayed by irrelevant details. And what we think of as memories are merely stories we tell ourselves anew each time we recall an event.” [1]

In other words, people don’t really care if what they know is true because they’re way too busy making faulty arguments, deluding the living shit out of themselves, and/or daydreaming about false memories and vicarious lives. For them, sleepwalking is more convenient than wakefulness. This is clearly not an option for restless spirits and independent minds. The art of questioning everything can be exhausting even once automated, but the reward is always substantial and irrevocably exponential.  The more you learn, the more you want to learn. Every answer leads to a new question, which in turn leads to another answer. One loop has now been replaced by another, far more productive one. The loop goes round and around, a seemingly ceaseless exercise in knowledge acquisition. That is, of course, until a pattern begins to emerge. At this point, you will need to grab a wrench.


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