As happy as I am with Garkov, I’m glad I’m not (by far) the only one playing with the idea of generative humor. Here’s a couple other interesting tangents on the subject (via Shamus Young’s Twenty Sided):
– Mezzacotta, which is sort of like Garkov except without the potential lawsuit from Paws, Inc. and with sentences that more consistently come to a proper end.
– Jess Johnson’s Common Lisp Joke Generator, which trumps Garkov by actually generating coherent groaners algorithmically.
I have no plot, no characters, no ideas at all yet. What I have is a gimmick: Twitter.
Follow twitanovel as I attempt to spend next month (National Novel Writing Month) trying to breath some life into the world of literature, 140 characters at a time.
This is a very bad idea, and I’m pretty excited about it.
We just got back our security deposit for the apartment we’d lived in for the last six years. It had a couple of deductions for cleaning labor, a broken light fixture, and some damage I managed to do over the years to the kitchen nook floor. All fair, no surprises, and we got the bulk of the deposit back.
In fact, we got enough of the deposit back that, had we instead taken those several hundred dollars and put them into the S&P 500 when we moved in and sold when we moved out, we’d probably have done worse.
The “try not to ruin your apartment too badly” fund. Fiduciary innovation in action.
Google finds no evidence of the phrase milf at eleven anywhere on the internet at the moment. Which isn’t necessarily weird, since it’s a silly phrase, but it seems like it should be documented.
On the other hand: Eleven killed in MILF attack in Maguindanao.
[Hat tip to mefite Debaser626 for either inspiring me with related weirdness or actually scoring the coinage but for a typo. It's hard to be sure which is the case.]
Arnold Zwicky takes a look at swing as an electoral superlative and other variations. This is why I read Language Log.
(Swinger, swingest, more swing, most swing, swingiest, just plain is swing: these states are totally those creepy friends who used to hang out in your parents’ den and laugh at jokes you didn’t really understand.)
CHARLIE GIBSON: You’re in Juneau, walking along the snow, when all of a sudden you look down—
SARAH PALIN: Why?
GIBSON: Why what?
PALIN: Why am I in Juneau?
GIBSON: It doesn’t make any difference—
PALIN: But, how come I’d be there? Oh, you know, Todd’s got a snow machine race outside Wasilla tomorrow and—
GIBSON: Maybe you’re on state business. Maybe you want to do some governing. Who knows? You look down—
PALIN: Do I get a per diem for this?
GIBSON: The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the Alaskan sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can’t. Not without your help. But you’re not helping.
PALIN: You’re darn tootin’ we’re gonna help out with those turtles that are in our American tundras that are hurtin’ in this time of economic crisis in America! Also, I’d like to talk for just a minute about energy again, which…
GIBSON: Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about… your running mate.
PALIN: In what respect, Charlie?
I’m a homeowner, and so is my wife.