Category - THE WRENCH




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.


Mena Suvari has a massive forehead. Seriously, it’s fucking huge. And thanks to Google, I know for sure I’m not the only one who thinks so. There must be many thousands of people out there who share my astonishment at the incredible size of Mena Suvari’s forehead. So many, in fact, that before I had even typed in the word “forehead”, Google had already suggested I go check out Mena Suvari’s.

And then, quite suddenly, I forget about foreheads and start thinking about foreshadowing and subtle allusions.

That being said, Google is roughly analogous to a god, if by “god” we mean the unquestioned arbiter of all human knowledge. But in some ways, Google is actually better than a god. Because unlike, say, Zeus or Yahweh, Google doesn’t demand users to pray or perform sacrifices in order to get results. And they get results fast—and a lot of them. Of course, it’s not all peaches and cream, you know. Users still have to think up something worth asking about, they still have to sort through the mess of mostly irrelevant results, and they still have to laboriously type out their requests on keyboards or touchscreens—unless, of course, they have some type of voice-activated assistant. But then users have to speak their demands, and that’s too much like praying.

But, were it not for such righteous gadgets, even praying to Google would be an impossibility for most users. Like a rosary or a magic talisman, smart phones and other devices are all designed with results in mind. Truly devoted users possess truly righteous hardware, memory and processing power; whereas one-day-a-week users are more concerned about social prestige and fashion statements, and make poor choices accordingly. While both types of users still retain basic access to the Almighty Google, socially conscious users routinely select hardware known for poor performance, slow searches, and shallow results. In stark contrast, devoted users select and manage their hardware carefully to maximize knowledge acquisition and increase performance. While every computer and mobile device contains a central processing unit (CPU) responsible for helping the user think clearly and act consistently, devoted users typically operate two or more simultaneously. This enables them to process information faster and more accurately, and boosts their defenses against incompatible or malicious operating systems.

An operating system is a set of interrelated programs powered by the economic agenda and social ideology of the company that designed it. Once installed, it reconfigures a user’s experience and resources toward achieving vested interests and generic goals, and may prove difficult to modify or erase. Over time, operating systems can become very controlling and invasive, and may routinely overwrite personal information and preferences without user permission. They may also affect how users comprehend real-time experiences, as well as how they store, retrieve or delete information from memory.

The mainstream operating system in use today is official and socially accepted and will usually require users to register themselves with an identification code before full access to browsers or other programs is permitted. Users will find it very difficult to move around or join a network without one, and may even be at risk of losing access to libraries, social plug-ins and other types of vital services. They are also easy targets for opportunistic hackers looking for open ports or other weaknesses to exploit. Fortunately, an unsecure user is also typically an uncommitted user, making him more likely to recognize and accept changes or upgrades when deficiencies or other weaknesses become obvious.

Some users may become dismissive or even agitated when confronted with the knowledge that the operating logic they had lived by for so long is not just illogical and defective, but a complete insult to their intelligence as well. In this situation, I would advise first running a zombie scan or taking a dumpster dive before attempting an eidology. Once sufficient background information has been retrieved and assessed, hardware characteristics should be considered, such as the age, origin, and peripheral devices associated with the user. From there it must be determined whether repairs are even possible. And even if they are, it is ultimately up to each user to decide which features need to be changed, added or eliminated, and which operating system to install. But because the mainstream operating system is so customary and uncomplicated, most users will gladly accept its deficiencies over having to consider more challenging alternatives.

It is not an eidologist’s duty to suggest these alternatives. Rather, an eidologist unmasks weaknesses in the mainstream operating system by mind hacking its programs and satirizing its users. Eidology is a series of methods designed for this purpose, and eidologue is where the results go to be published.


Most people think they know what an irony is until they are asked to describe one. Their hesitation to do so is perfectly understandable, given that the term irony actually has several definitions, some of which are still hotly disputed. To compensate, some people resort to personal experiences to illustrate what they think an irony is. Here’s a personal experience of mine to illustrate what an irony isn’t. At JFK airport several weeks back, I watched a heartwarming reunion between two childhood friends who just happened to be catching the same flight. They then proceeded to go completely apeshit about how ironic the whole thing was. But it wasn’t ironic—It was just a coincidence. Granted, it was a highly improbable coincidence, but improbability alone doesn’t make a situation ironic. If, however, the sheer excitement of the affair caused one or both of them to go into cardiac arrest and expire right there at the terminal, then that would definitely be ironic. That’s because real ironies involve darkly humorous twists of fate, tragically poetic reversals of fortune, or unexpected and often unfortunate outcomes. A real irony is simply the cosmos playing comedian to a crowd that isn’t laughing.

Canada certainly isn’t laughing—and with good reason. Because thanks to Ottawa native Alanis Morrisette’s whiny and altogether erroneous musical treatise on the topic of irony, an entire generation of shiftless teenagers has now entered into adulthood with a completely retarded understanding of what actually constitutes an ironic situation. Allow me to illustrate just a few of her total fuckups. Getting stuck in a traffic jam when you’re already late is not ironic—it’s irresponsible and suggests that you should probably be managing your time more efficiently. Paying for what you were told was a free ride is also not ironic; it’s false advertising and possibly even a crime. And oh yeah, you also just got hustled. But getting hustled isn’t ironic either, unless your stolen cash is in turn used by the thief to buy a seat on a rollercoaster that subsequently crashes, killing only him. Alternatively, if the crash managed to kill everyone on board except for him, then I guess that would be something of a double irony, and a decidedly unjust one at that. Getting rained out on your wedding day could be considered ironic, if you were getting married in Death Valley. But if your nuptials were being exchanged almost anywhere else in the world outside of a desert, I’d wager the chances of the whole thing being a total washout to be just about average. Don’t chalk this one up to irony, just tune in to the Weather Channel or consult an almanac, and then plan accordingly. Better yet, don’t get married at all, because chances are actually better than average that the harsh realities of marriage will inevitably pulverize every reason you ever had to even want to get hitched in the first place. And that is ironic, don’t you think?

In the unlikely event Ms. Morrissette ever reads this, I hope she doesn’t find my critique too scathing. She really shouldn’t. After all, her first taste of stardom came on the set of the 80’s Canadian TV series You Can’t Do That On Television, remembered mostly for routinely dumping green slime on children every time they said the words “I don’t know”. Given such an outstanding career foundation, Alanis really shouldn’t mind getting dumped on by me for saying “isn’t it ironic” about situations that totally aren’t.

Ironically, deadly ironies are also some of the funniest. That might make me sound callous, but how do we know that the victims didn’t burst out laughing themselves at the preposterous circumstances behind their imminent demise? What shipwreck survivor wouldn’t find it at least a little comical to be dying of thirst while floating around on a life raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? And I think that at least a few of the doomed passengers aboard the “unsinkable” Titanic must have taken a moment or two before their near vertical slide into the frosty North Atlantic to admire the gods for so humorously demonstrating that they could indeed sink that ship.

When an inventor gets killed by his own invention you can practically taste the cosmic lampoonery. I bet Henry Smolinski, inventor of the flying car, was all smiles when, as his poorly modified Pinto was falling apart in mid-air, he quickly realized that the key to being a famous innovator was not so much media exposure as it was hiring a qualified welder. And I’m sure that, had he not been screaming in abject terror while plummeting 80 feet off of a cliff, Segway company owner James Heselden would have marveled at the irony of dying on his own Segway when all he was trying to do was throw it in reverse. I’m not so certain, however, that chancellor Li Si of Imperial China had enough time between amputations to revel in the irony of being slowly dismembered via the very execution method he had devised, the Five Pains. Actually, he was probably just really frustrated for having devised that many pains. Had he not already had his hands amputated, he might have experienced that “slap yourself in the forehead” feeling physicist Marie Curie must have enjoyed when she finally realized that the lovely turquoise glow emanating from the vials of radium she obsessively carried with her everywhere she went was called “radioactivity” and was already in the process of shredding every cell in her body with massive doses of ionizing radiation.

Not all ironies are instigated by chance. People make ironic statements all the time, usually in the form of sarcasm or unintentional contradictions, either verbally or in writing. Billboards and traffic signs exemplify this type of irony (please see below for some brilliant examples). Playwrights use irony whenever they want the audience to know things about the story that the characters themselves are unaware of. Think the Truman Show or the finale to Romeo and Juliet. In both cases, a sharp disparity exists between what the characters think is happening and what the audience knows is going to happen. This is considered a dramatic irony and is meant to imitate real life, insofar as the characters reflect the average person and the audience assumes the role of god. That’s an important part of what makes an irony so ironic: the suspicion that someone or something “out there” must have planned it this way, for how else could something you intended or expected to happen backfire in such a hilarious and uncanny fashion?

Cosmic ironies make you feel like the gods are toying with you for their amusement because hey, they probably are. And dramatic ironies are designed to imitate this hopelessly unjust state of servitude. But there is another type of irony that involves neither gods nor playwrights, but social researchers—something I like to call “experimental irony”. More methodology than script, an experimental irony involves verifying the accuracy of social observations or theories by pretending to know less about a person or group when you actually know more. This approach is derived from the Socratic method, which involved feigning ignorance or assuming false personas in order to confuse adversaries into revealing otherwise guarded information. Again, the formula is clear: one entity  (i.e. the cosmos, audience, or researcher) possesses knowledge unavailable to others, and uses it to comprehend and perhaps even organize circumstances in a meaningful yet unexpected way. But while theater and cinema rely on dramatic irony to ensure a tragic or comedic ending, an experimental irony simply ensures good data. As an ironic research method, this approach requires assuming false identities in order to reveal the true identities of others. It exposes truth by use of deception, and demands detachment from people even as you work to immerse yourself in their worlds. It’s like being a machine programmed to ask personal questions, such as why someone would care more about needing a knife in a house filled with ten thousand spoons than in the clearly troubled mind of the freak who feels they need to own that many. And now that I have that fucking song stuck in my head, I also realize how ironic it is that the only songs I can’t get out of my head are the very ones I hate the most. Surely, the gods must be toying with me.

Some more examples of irony:




We should just get rid of February. It’s just too inconsistent to be taken seriously as a Gregorian unit of time: two or three days shorter than every month except for every fourth year, when it miraculously gains an extra day, or leap day. Leap days are added to force the seasons to stay synchronized with our yearly calendar of social and commercial events, because having a white Christmas is obviously more important to humanity then correctly plotting time. The Maya didn’t use leap days, but since having snow on Christmas is probably unheard of in a rain forest, we may never know if such frozen magnificence would have made them reconsider.

In Australia, February is the last real month of summer and is still an ideal time for surfing, sunbathing and koala hunting. Anyone living anywhere north of the 38th parallel will be insulted to know this. Up here in the polar north, February is the ass end of winter: a bleak and unholy time littered with the salty, lumpish remains of once towering snow banks. Here there exist only two types of weather: freakish snow and hard rain.  These usually alternate, but sometimes they generously pummel us into submission at the same time. These are the kind of days that make you want to kill god. Over the course of the whole month, snow and ice fall, melt and then refreeze, eventually congealing into toxic mounds of urine and petrified dogshit. Everything is frozen in February, even time itself. Many minds are lost trying to reconcile how the shortest month of the year could actually feel like the longest. If you are terminally ill and care more about basic survival than genuine happiness, you probably enjoy February; it’s the only month of the year where every day feels like a fucking eternity.

Having Valentine’s Day in February was the obvious choice, because February is truly awful and so is Valentine’s Day. Most people don’t care to know the origins of this senseless waste of time and money, which is why I’m going to summarize it for you here. Valentine’s Day is actually a Catholic feast day established by Pope Gelasius way back in 496 to honor a group of martyrs who never even existed. This might appear like a pointless and inane gesture, but only if you choose to ignore the naturally aggressive progression of monotheism and over a thousand years of pre-Christian religious traditions. “St.” Valentine’s Day was actually instituted as a way to supplant the Lupercalia, an ancient Roman pastoral holiday originally held between February 13th and 15th.  This celebration included such heartwarming festivities as rampant animal sacrifices, blood baths and everything else you’d expect from a good old-fashioned pagan ritual. After being anointed with the blood of sacrificial swine, young shepherds and nobleman alike would take to the streets of Rome in their sacrificial pelts, indiscriminately flogging anyone they happened upon with what Plutarch suggestively described as “shaggy thongs”.  Young women actually volunteered for such treatment with the reasonable expectation that a friendly flogging with strips of hardened ox skin would get them pregnant.

The Romans called these thongs februa, which is of course where February gets its ridiculous name—from ox thongs. Most people don’t even pronounce it correctly, and I suppose this has something to do with the fact that January and February sound a lot alike, minus the trick “r”. So February is also tricky, which is a polite way of saying “you’re a disingenuous asshole”. Like februa, the word “valentine” is also derived from the latin valens, which means “worthy”, “strong”, or “powerful”. You might want to reflect on this in a couple of weeks when you’re standing in line at the nearest Target with a massive red panda bear in one hand and your balls in the other.

February plays host to some other fairly miserable spectacles as well, like Groundhog Day. This actually had the potential to be a very exciting tradition, had the German immigrants who brought it with them to Pennsylvania left intact the part where the shadow of a sacred bear is used to determine the onset of Spring, and not a groundhog. If they had just left well enough alone, viewers from all over the world could have tuned in every year to see exactly what happens when the mayor of Punxsutawney tries to lure the sacred bear from its cave. Instead, we get a large rodent and a Bill Murray vehicle that is inexplicably far more popular in Europe than it has ever been in the states (although it is a pretty decent film).

There’s also President’s Day, which I would probably respect more had the country Washington and Lincoln worked so hard to create not been effectively destroyed over the last ten years. February is also Black History Month. I think this is racist. If I were black, I’d be pretty pissed off with the government for dedicating the shortest and arguably shittiest month of the year to me. I would demand that this be changed to July immediately, where it is currently National Ice Cream month.

Trying to comprehend February as if it were just like any other month is foolhardy and will leave you totally exposed to the massive affront to reason it represents. Just look at what happened to one of the great minds over at Wikipedia when he attempted to discuss February in basic astronomical terms:

“Having only 28 days in common years, it is the only month of the year that can pass without a single full moon. It is also the only month of the calendar that once every six years and twice every 11 years, will have only four full 7-day weeks. Where the first day of the month starts on a Monday and the last day ends on a Sunday, this was observed in 2010 and can be traced back 11 years to 1999, 6 years back to 1993, 11 years back to 1982, 11 years back to 1971 and 6 years back to 1965; and so on twice 11 years consecutively and once six years either forward into the future or back into the past. This works unless the pattern is broken by a skipped leap year, but no leap year has been skipped since 1900 and no others will be skipped until 2100. (Years that are evenly divisible by 100 are not leap years, unless they are also evenly divisible by 400, in which case they are leap years). A year of this kind would be a common year starting on Friday. It cannot happen in a leap year.”

What a convoluted mess. You can practically hear the author’s voice give out half way through as he struggles in vain to make some numerical sense out of this daft monstrosity of a month. He fails miserably, unless of course it was his intention all along to drive home just how jarring a punishment living through February can really be. And even if we decided to ditch the stupid name in favor of better sounding alternatives, our only good options would be either Solmanoth (the mud month) or Kale-monath (cabbage). And as you can see by the translations, these options are even less attractive than ox thongs.

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