perfidy

No less august an institution than the Smithsonian has recklessly and without evidence declared me, and by extension the entire ministry, to be SPAM LIKE CONTENT. This is, apparently, a total and permanent judgment, if I am interpreting their missive correctly:

Technical details of permanent failure:
PERM_FAILURE: SMTP Error (state 12): 550 Error: SPAM LIKE CONTENT

Needless to say, I disagree violently with this assessment. Hell, I never send an email to more than five recipients. And it's never about penis enlargement. Okay, very rarely about penis enlargement. But never about Viagra. Even I have standards. Low standards, to be sure. But they are standards.

I think I'll have to write a letter.

The attentive reader may have noticed a slight rearrangement of the sidebars, and the addition of a new item, namely, a small chunk of text advertisement. This is not entirely without precedent here at the Ministry, as for some time there has languished at the bottom of the right sidebar a small, tentative foray into the world of advertisement. This effort proved fruitless, and was summarily cancelled. Our new effort was undertaken after careful thought and considerable research, namely, Minister Patton said, "Hey, what about AdBrite?" and Minister Buckethead said, "What the hell? Why Not?"

Our new arrangement with AdBrite is already paying off, a tribute to the foresight and business acumen of those ministers. So far, we have been assigned ads that are euphemistically referred to as "Network Ads." We have come to understand that this really means cheeseball ads for ringtones and hair replacement therapy. Nevertheless, we are in the loop, adwise, and soon some hapless sap thoughtful and broadminded advertiser will see our site among the listings, and think to himself, (we are sure) ""Jesus H. Particular Christ! That's where I need to be peddling my shit!" And, then, brothers, we will be into the long green. In only a little under two days, we have already - already! - accumulated $.39. At this rate, we will get our first ten dollar check sometime before Christmas. We may even be able to afford Christmas bonuses for the Code Whittling Gnomes and the underage Laotian who labor in the HTML mines. And if some patron chooses us as the vehicle to drive to his own personal monetary and fiduciary goals, we could make as much as fifteen times that amount. Think of the celebrations we could have with that sort of cash!

We are even now pursuing other, possibly more lucrative venues for advertising dollars. What fo you, the readers, think of this move? Are you disappointed that the Ministry, long a bastion of selfless, ascetic devotion to blogging has sold out? Or are you surprised that such puissant thinkers and planners as the Ministers have taken this long to hold out a bucket when it's raining soup? We welcome your input - though be advised that money is a more powerful lure than the respect of others.

Robert Anton Wilson (no introduction needed, I'm sure) is dying, and is facing eviction from his apartment. Boingboing has the details.

I don't know about you lot, but even though I read the Illuminatus! trilogy while drifting in and out of a flu coma, and even though I didn't "get" half of what the hell was going on (thanks, again, to the fever-pain), in the ten years since I read it, things keep bubbling up that could only have originated in the wild mind of Robert Anton Wilson. At least half of what I come up with for this very website is deeply influenced by his madness, and I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. I wouldn't be the same dude without him.

The Boingboing link has information on where to send checks or paypal payments. According to friends, Wilson as of a couple days ago only has enough money to cover one month's rent, after which he spends his dying days homeless. Not cool.

All the best to RAW, and here's hoping things go his way for a change.

[wik] [Update] There is a later post, also on Boing Boing, that tells us that the donations were coming in, so much so that

Anyway, this morning Bob's daughter showed up at his house in tears because she had checked his PayPal account and found money for next month's rent plus more. Bob called me to say that he couldn't believe people would care so much about him and as we talked (which isn't easy for him at this point) he was overcome with emotion more than once. He is so touched and RELIEVED at the possibility of staying in his home. He kept repeating to me his deep felt appreciation and disbelief that people would care so much about him. What a humble and sweet man.

Which is all to the good. I am sure that continuing medical expenses and everyday bills will quickly deplete that, so continued giving is indicated. For those who can't stomach giving without receiving, there is this, a place where you can buy a nifty tshirt, and for each one, $10 will go to RAW. [- buckethead]

[alsø wik] I just noted that the tshirt link above is to, of all things, Giant Robot Printing. Everyone must buy a tshirt to help RAW. I am frankly stunned, though, that they have no tshirts featuring giant robots.

Throughout history, the hunt has traditionally been central to high culture. Hunting rights were reserved to the aristocracy, and poachers were punished viciously for the least infraction. Hunting was, among other things, a proxy for war training, a test of manhood, and a means of ridding the world of dangerous predators. In modern times, as our feeble replacement for warrior nobility has moved on to other pursuits – literary criticism, cultivating effete mannerisms, the collection of third world handicrafts, posturing “interest” in obscure causes – the hunt has declined in importance. Nowadays, hunting is largely the preserve of the descendents of those who were once hanged for snatching the King’s deer. The hunt has now become hunting. A blue collar pursuit, déclassé, and if noticed at all by the guardians of modern culture, regarded with little short of revulsion and nausea.

That this is emblematic of our decline as a civilization is clear. It is also clear that something must be done. In considering this matter, the ministers felt that in reviving the Hunt, we must attempt to recapture the best aspects of the Hunt of old. It must be a test of courage, man vs. the most dangerous of beasts. It must have an element of public service – we must, in killing, provide life and safety for the little people who are hungry and, indeed, at risk from the hunger of the wild. The Hunt must refine those skills most useful in war, so that we, and those who participate, will be better prepared for the coming apocalypse. Finally, it must offer up to heaven a sacrifice of blood, cruelty, torment and incense.

In pursuit of these aims, therefore, The Ministry of Minor Perfidy is now accepting reservations for the first annual Ministry Manatee Hunt and Barbecue.

The Manatee is renowned throughout the world for its cunning, viciousness and utter lethality. It is a known, historical fact that the first two Spanish expeditions to Florida were consumed to the last by the angry, territorial Manatee. Early settlers introduced the Alligator in the hopes of limiting, at least somewhat, the depredations of packs of hunting Manatees that once plagued that region. For several centuries, Spanish settlers lived in fear of the man-eating Manatee, slowly learning from the local aborigines (colloquially known as “Indians”) methods of avoiding the vacas del agua del asesino del pavor.

Manatees teach their young to hunt

It wasn’t until General Andrew Jackson was sent to the newly acquired Florida territory to deal with the Manatee menace (and, incidentally, put down the Seminole rebellion) that people could leave their homes in safety, and live without fear of continual harassment and death at the teeth and claws of hunting packs of Manatees. Jackson organized the largest Manatee Hunt in history: using 800 Federal troops and over a thousand Georgia Militia, along with locally conscripted “volunteers” he started in central Florida and swept outwards in a giant spiral, driving the Manatee before them. Great was the slaughter of Manatee on that day.

Since then, the Manatee have survived, much reduced in number and wary of man. Only occasionally do they stir from their watery lairs to snatch a small child or a careless senior citizen. Most of these attacks are ascribed to alligators, which no doubt strikes a dark chord of humor in the Manatee.

We will not be orchestrating a Hunt on the scale of General Jackson. There are simply not enough Manatees to make it feasible, and in addition, a close reading of Florida’s trespassing statutes suggests that it could expose the Ministry to significant legal risk. Instead, we envision a smaller, more convivial hunting party of 8-20 participants, and the Hunt will take place on private land, free from the interference of do-gooding environmentalists and nosey park rangers. The only remaining details to be hammered out are tactical.

There are several schools of thought on the best means to hunt the savage Manatee.

The Manatee, as is well known, fools its prey by taking on the appearance of a placid, slow moving blubbery creature. When the victim, convinced of the harmlessness of the Manatee, looks away, then it charges, lunging out of the water in a horrific display of razor sharp claws and bone-crushing teeth.

The full grown Manatee has several modes of attack at its disposal.

• The smooth, rubbery skin of the Manatee conceals muscles of surprising strength. The Manatee can literally leap from the water, landing on its target and crushing it instantly with its bulk.
• The Manatee’s jaws have a bite strength of almost a thousand pounds per square inch, stronger than the Mako shark. Its jaws can sever an arm or leg almost instantaneously, or pop a human skull like a watermelon at a Gallagher show.
• Concealed in the seemingly limp front flippers, the Manatee hides fourteen razor-sharp, five inch claws. These talons can eviscerate a man in a fraction of second.
• It is a little known fact that the Manatee, like the dolphin, can emit a high-pitched screetch that is capable of stunning, for a brief time, creatures up to man size. This attack works best in the water, as the air is a much less efficient medium for sound.

Since the Great Hunt almost two centuries ago, the Manatee has learned to be a solitary hunter, relying more on stealth and cunning than the cooperative hunting pack tactics of its glory days. The Manatee is now a solitary creature, reclusive and secretive, except when they put on displays to fool the weak minded.

The Manatee Prepares to Strike

With this in mind, we can determine the best means of attack. The traditional means, sanctified by time and papal decree, is to sneak up on the Manatee and kill him with a blow to the head with a blunt object, such as a tire iron. The Ministry reveres tradition of course, but this method appears to be a trifle inelegant. We will leave it on the table for discussion, however.

The second method is also time-tested, though of more recent provenance. This involves attacking the Manatee as it surfaces with a large power boat. The real skill involves hitting the Manatee with multiple passes, to create the figure-eight pattern that proves it was an intentional kill, and not the result of driving a boat while drunk. The Ministry does not approve of this method, as it is not sporting, manly, or fair.

The final method under discussion is the use of firearms. The Ministry has secured the use of number of a Browning M2 .50 Machine Gun, and proposes this as the means of choice for our Hunt. Given the relative ferocity of the Manatee, we feel that this weapon offers the best balance between risk and carnage for both the hunter and the Manatee. (Each hunter will be permitted a native bearer/loader.) After all, we do want to give the Manatee a fighting chance.

There will be a preparatory meeting a week before the expedition, when Ministry representatives and the participants can hash out the final details. Native bearer/loaders will also be assigned at this time, along with code names and individual itineraries. If you wish to travel to the hunt site with more than one other person, special dispensation must be obtained, as we do not wish to make local law enforcement officials at all suspicious.

While enjoying a midnight snifter of umbilical blood and Asbach- a drink called the “Baby Hitler”, customary among Perfidians- I settled into my favorite wing-backed chair and, once satisfied my back was against the wall and there were still two exits from the room, I allowed myself to relax.

My mind was pleased with the state of things: perpetual war; incurable pestilence; rampant poverty; and irredeemable sloth and corruption are all fundamental aspects of modern Man. Across the Multiverse, even, Light has been retreating before Dark for millennia. Good is out across the infinite Cosmos; Evil is cool, and Chaos is the new/old/new black. It is in those circumstances that the Ministry thrives. And so I was, by conscious reckoning anyway, content.

But as the coal-fired hemoglobin started to pull me under, my unconscious offered a disturbing realization: soon, very soon, there will be no new frontiers to conquer, no more people or species to corrupt. Possibly even before the Third Millennium of the Son, all will be dark. Evil will reign, but over what?

Startled, I jerked from my semi-dream so suddenly that the vivid images and impending dread drained from my mind like water. It was only with a bit of reflection, and a couple more drinks, that I was able even to recall even as much as I have. One detail, though, was burned into my conscious and needed no further prompting to retain. A vision as clear as the sun I so loathe.

It was a marquee.

And the marquee proclaimed: “The Ministry of Minor Perfidy: The Movie”.

And it was clear then that film was the last frontier for evil to continue to spawn. Even after the final curtain for homo sapiens- as our civilization evaporates into supernova, or dread demon Thaoekilikhan devours us all feet first- there will be entertainment lawyers, studio executives, and armies of hacks still surviving, somewhere, like roaches. And like roaches, they will do what comes naturally to them: making entertainment so bad it perpetuates the cause of pure evil everywhere.

The Ministry needs to make a movie. The first biopic about a blog. There is no script yet, but that’s rarely stopped filmmakers before. I do have some ideas about casting though:

JohnO: Toss-up between Steve Buscemi or Charlie Sheen.

Buckethead: I’m leaning toward Lawrence Fishburne.

Patton: Maybe Billy Crudup; maybe Billy Bob Thornton. Definitely someone named “Billy”.

Ross: Jet Li.

Me: Could go Carlos Mencia; if unavailable, get Lee Van Cleef back from the dead.

The Ministry is recognized the world over for its incisive writing, penetrating insights, and giant fighting robots. And Zombies. Until recently however, this recognition was sadly awardless. That changed forever on the morning of September 12th, when the Ministry received its first ever award.

There was great rejoicing in the Ministry Catastratorium and Piano Bar when, a week later, we discovered that we had won. By Ministry decree, all of the code whittling gnomes, the kobolds in the url mines, various minions, factotums and other oppressed functionaries were granted an unprecedented five minute holiday in recognition of their unstinting (and until now, completely unrewarded) efforts in making the Ministry the blog juggernaut that it is. Of course, it was not merely the little people who found joy in this glorious moment. Minister Johno was in such great shock that he put his beer yeast in the bread dough, and swallowed a saffron-jelly glazed, garlic and truffle stuffed peahen ($139.99/lb.) whole. Ross, overcome with glee, almost posted. Geeklethal nearly caused the death of several small children when, in an excess of bile, he aimed his rifle skyward and fired off a clip. Minister Patton very nearly smiled. And Minister Buckethead had to be revived with smelling salts and a warm mug of cocoa.

We shall treasure this award forever. Or at least until someone else is nice to us. Until then, we bask in the warm glow of the words of Enchiridon:

it's an above average blog

Since now every minister has had a post within the last seven days, I think, at least until we think of something better to do with it, the countdown timer will now reflect the elapsed time since posting for that Minister who has gone the longest without a post. I have no certainty that this will actually result in more posting, but it will at the very least be the occasion for some kind-hearted ribbing at intra-Ministerial conclaves. Now in the hot seat: Johno.

In the interest of full disclosure, I feel it is important that all the Ministry's readers, ministers, and minions be aware of the events of the past two weeks.

A few of you may have noticed that the Ministry of Minor Perfidy's website went down last week for several days. This was most regrettable.

The outage was the unfortunate result of a negotiation gone bad between myself, an interdimensional supercomputer which calls itself Sheridan, and one of the more testy Ancient Outer Evils. One thing you need to understand about interdimensional supercomputers is that the concept of latency takes on a whole new meaning. Here on Earth, we are accustomed to network latencies on the order of milliseconds, gaps of time that are nearly imperceptible even at their worst. But when the computer is both sentient and relying on logic processors, language interpretation software packages, and RAM caches residing in a cool half-dozen parallel universes, latencies can range from the normal milliseconds to minutes at a time. The net result - get it? Net result? - is that sometimes the right hand literally does not know what the left hand is doing. And this time, as the right hand was agreeing with me and this particularly testy Ancient Outer Evil on the main points of our proposed cross-temporal profit sharing scheme, the left hand was simultaneously insulting the same Evil's mother and trying to impregnate one of our receptionist.

Long story short, I zigged, Evil zagged, and in the ensuing chaos our server room was on the receiving end of some accidental gunplay. I would have thought that a few extra air holes would merely have aided in cooling our massively overclocked machines, but nooooooo, both scrutator and snoogums (ah, stalwart servers both!) went to that great gig in the sky.

It took many thousands of sprite-hours of work and the regrettable deaths of millions of code-gnomes to reconstruct the trillions of bits of data the Ministry has collected over the years. Hard work, backbreaking work, frequently fatal work (ah! brave code-gnomes!), but necessary work if we are to bring you the content, wisdom, and dubious counsel you have grown to depend on (or at least tolerate).

Many thanks to Ministers Ross and Patton for their yeoman's work in repairing the site, to Buckethead for spearheading the entire venture, and to GeekLethal for locking, loading, and figuring out a way to rescue me from Sheridan's hordes of gorgeous yet deadly fembots.

Plus, whatever that thing was that Ross did, just below.

We'd like to thank our readers for any patience they might have expended waiting for our inevitable but delayed return to the Innerweb. Also, many thanks to Minister Ross, without whom we'd still be suffering from the malaise of our surprise server upgrade.

[wik] Hey, did someone say "malaise"? And did someone else say "worst president ever"? Well, yes, they did, though the connection between the two seems a bit fuzzy right now.

For Perfidy readers in Florida, the Ministry recommends retasking your Ministry-approved Zombie Survival Kits (ZSKs) to defense against Alligators. By our calculations, the death rate from alligator attacks has seen an approximately 700 fold jump over the past weekend. A conservative linear extrapolation of this trend would have us losing the the entire population of Florida by sometime next Tuesday. We always thought it would be zombies, or space lizards, or giant fighting robots. But the exact face of our doom is immaterial. What matters is that we go down fighting, with a shotgun in one hand and the bible in the other. Well, maybe a revolver and the Torah. Or a baseball bat and the Bhagavad-Gita. Or a flouncy small sword and a readers digest condensed Shakespeare. Or a metalstorm pistol and a leather bound edition of Dune.

Anyway, armed, and gripping firmly some physical artifact of our our long, glorious and ultimately doomed civilization. Death to the Alligators!

Ministry Crony EDog is a busy man. He writes. He works. He has kids, and a Mrs. EDog. Inexplicably, he has decided that his true mission in life is to provide the world with lego webcomics. Well, maybe not his true mission. His true mission is to develop a team of superheroes and fight evil thoughout the world. This webcomic thing is just sort of to keep a finger in the whole superhero thing, until he gets his team together.

Behold.

[wik] He also started a new short story, which you can read over at his bloggy thingy. Will he ever stop? Check it out.

Ministry Crony EDog has moved his digs from the picturesque but unimproved highlands of ianhealy.com to the congested and crowded suburbs of ianthealy.blogspot.com. We support him in this questionable endeavor, because that's what we do. Support people who undertake questionable endeavors, that is. We would never do anything questionable. Or at least, if we did, we'd make sure there weren't any witnesses. Or insist that we were well compensated for doing something questionable and public.

Good luck to EDog with the permalinks and archives at blogspot, and we wish him all the success in the world. Well all the success that we don't wish for ourselves, anyway.

The Milblogger Conference was a remarkable experience, despite the exigencies of scheduling and over-indulgence which somewhat curtailed my ability to participate. I have rarely been in the presence of so many outstanding people all at once. The people I'd already met - Cat, Blackfive, ArmyWife, were their usual charming and intoxicated selves. And those I met for the first time at the pre conference drinking, the conference, or the after conference pub non-crawl without exception impressed me with their charm, enthusiasm, competence and desire to put themselves around as many alcoholic drinks as humanly possible. But I shouldn't give the impression that the whole thing was about drinking. That was just a useful and enjoyable side effect. The real work of the conference has been discussed elsewhere, but I'd especially like to single out a few of the many people I met.

Uncle Jimbo, from over at Blackfive, is exactly what you'd expect from reading his posts, only more so. An intensely fun and indeed loud individual. And seeing Matt again was every bit as nice as I imagined it would be. Stand up guys, the both of them.

Steve Schippert of ThreatsWatch.org, is a little more serious than Jimbo, but fascinating to talk to, and actually took the time to come up with a stunningly workable scheme to increase this humble website's readership. Even though I hadn't (despite the pleas of many) actually gotten around to reading Threatswatch until this morning, You can be sure that I will be a devotedly regular reader from now on.

Murdoc, of MurdocOnline, whose pages I have filled with drivel about UAVs, made the trek down from the untamed wilderness of Grand Rapids, Michigan. He totally pussed out on the Friday drinking, offering only a lame excuse – something about an eleven hour drive. And I of course had to bail early on the crawl. Hopefully, he can make it down to DC again, and if we are blessed with better weather, I will give him a real tour.

Deborah Scranton and Mike Moriarty, respectively the director and one of the cameramen/stars of the upcoming movie, The War Tapes. Next time I'm up near New Hampshire, I need to hang out with these people. Abandoning my conversation with Mike and Deborah was the most painful bit about bugging out for Easter. Go over and look at the previews.

There's some commentary trickling out, about the aftermath of the pub crawl, available here. And check out OpFor's podcast over here. I know they changed their name because the name "Officer's Club" was exclusionary, offensive and cumbersome. But the new name always reminds me of the eighth grade joke - "Hey man, there's a dikvor on your shoulder." But maybe that's just me.

A great time, and I wish I had been able to spend more time with everyone Saturday night.

Part three of the Ministry's collaborative fiction-writing project is after the break. Previous installments: part 2, part 1.
On this particular day, Alexei disrupted his longstanding lunchtime routine of munching a sandwich with his nose buried in a paperback in order to go to the bank. As menial as his staple-removing job was, he had still managed for the first time in his life to accumulate a little extra money and thought it might be a good time to try to drop that into a savings account. Moreover, whether it was the diesel, allergies, or a cold coming on, Alexei had been growing quite a headache behind his eyes. It was bad enough that he had swallowed a few painkillers and still had to stop sharking staples every so often to shake away stars that crept into the corners of his vision. Maybe some fresh air and a walk would do him good.

The streets around the office building were not too different from the streets around his apartment save for a greater density of brutal concrete architecture. The squat blocky skyscrapers hogged any warmth the sunlight could provide, and created plenty of dim nooks where chilly breezes stirred drifts of plastic bags and discarded paper. This part of downtown was usually quiet, with very few businesses of the type that needed foot traffic, so Alexei's walk to the nearest branch of Imperial Trust was lonely except for the odd clutch of office girls or homeless people shivering into coats in the weak spring sun.

As he walked, each step thudded behind his eyes and made the world judder like a video feed from a badly-held camera. Things kept happening at the corners of his eyes: shadows resolved themselves into shapes that moved toward him with purpose; green darts leapt around storefront windows; an office girl separated herself from her gaggle to sprout a pair of gigantic white wings and leap into the sky. When he turned his head, Alexei saw a Dumpster, a green pennant flapping on the breeze, a girl in a dirty white raincoat.

Alexei stepped into the warmth of the bank and stopped a moment to massage his head. An attractive woman behind a desk to the left was watching him. As he caught her gaze she said brightly, "Are you here to see someone, sir? In particular?"

"I want to, I..." said Alexei as a wave of pain crashed over him. "...savings account," he managed to finish.

"Very good sir, won't-you-have-a-seat-I-won't-be-a-minute," said the woman as she stood and began to walk toward a door in the far wall.

Alexei slumped gratefully into the chair. "Sarah Moloney," he said to himself absently as his eyes skipped around her nearly bare desk, found her nameplate, and settled on the people at the next station. A man in an ugly necktie was helping a tired-looking middle aged couple with a loan application. As Alexei watched, the man's necktie danced and dangled around the rim of a large coffee mug. As he leaned forward to gesticulate with his pen toward a paragraph at the end of the document, it slipped in.

Alexei leaned forward a bit to say something, and sat back nonplussed as the man's necktie began to bulge and pulsate rhythmically.

"Good afternoon Mr..." said Sarah Moloney, as she sat down again.

"Hi. I need to..." was as far as Alexei got before another pain-wave broke. "I'm sorry... I'm having the worst day. I have a terrible headache and I might be going, uh, a little crazy. I swear I just saw that guy's necktie..."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir,' said Sarah Moloney, then leaned in to stage-whisper, "Carl does wear the worst clothes, doesn't he?" Her face as it came closer seemed pale, her smile a little frozen. She leaned back and picked up a glossy brochure from her desk. "Savings account was it, sir?" Sarah Moloney's knuckles were white on the brochure, and the tip of a turquoise pump visible under her desk quivered.

"That's right, but... I think I'd better go. I'm seeing things. I've got this terrible headache. My eyes are killing me."

"Well then, sir, you'd better try mine," Sarah Moloney chirped as her thumbs went to her face and began to press. A tiny whimper escaped her throat and her smile slipped the slightest bit as her thumbs disappeared and her eyes popped loose from their sockets.

My continuation of the Ministry of Minor Perfidy's collaborative writing exercise is below the break. Read the first installment, written by GeekLethal, here.
It didn't help that the only job Alexei could seem to keep - the only job that hadn't ended in some ignominious frogmarch to a distant office on a top floor where he was harangued in words he barely even understood like "malfeasance" and "restraining order," or lying bent and bruised underneath some cruel steaming machine with a nickname like "The Mangler" or "Hobart," was a job in a nearly forgotten department of a past its prime molded plastics concern removing staples from endless reams of flimsy yellow paper.

Endless reams of yellow paper that flapped, folded, stuck and tore at the slightest touch. Endless reams of yellow paper faintly inscribed with fifth-generation carbon copies of nearly irrelevant data, crinkled and landscaped, spindled and folded. Endless reams of yellow paper with edges that, for all their insubstantial creperie, cut like a razor. Endless reams of yellow paper that some craven middle management types insisted must be saved, must be kept! in case of lawsuit or audit by overly curious head honcho.

But the staples added, so the craven middle management types held, the equivalent of five pages' thickness to any given thinly stapled document, and so in order to save file space, they must first be removed. Alexei knew, as any intelligent person would, that this was silliness of the first water. But it paid the bills and it left his mind free to wander far afield from his shabby bus stop, from his grimy office/closet with the dingy grey-tan carpet, from the stifling pong of the diesel fumes, from the suffocating closeness of the endless reams of flimsy yellow paper, from the trailing skein of bad timing and bad decisions that clung to him like stale cigarette smoke.

Plus, he got to use a staple shark.

It is a sign of the apocalypse, or perhaps merely the distraction of our more prolix ministers, that Geeklethal has had two posts in a row. In our secret conclave, hidden from the prying eyes of nosy readers, the Ministry has coined a new word for the state of being overwhelmed by work or other responsibilities to the point of complete inability to blog. In honor of our least productive, but highest income blogger, we call this being "Rossed."

Patton was due to write the follow up to Geeklethal's story nugget. But he's rossed. Johno would be delving into the deep arcana of music for us all, but is rossed by work and the mysterious and nefarious activities of a small New England museum. Why, I myself would be talking about giant fighting robots and the AWST article about the secret military spaceplane but for being rossed by the endless waiting for the arrival of my second spawn.

Are you rossed? Perhaps that is why you haven't been commenting lately. I know we haven't made it easy, seeing as we're not posting much new material. But just because we're slacking doesn't make it right for you to slack. So page back over to some old posts, and leave some new comments. Make that month old, stale commentary new again! Remember the Ministry isn't just about us. Mostly about us, to be sure. But it is at least a little about you.

The Ministry is all about sharing.

We share so much with each other- our knowledge; our wisdom; our decades of experience with fighting robots, prostitutes, fart jokes, industrial construction, rhetoric, and prostitutes- that as a unit we are better equipped to bring enlightenment to the world than any other random sampling of five men.

Our long term goal is, at its core, quite simple: to bring our love of sharing to the scattered, feral remnants of humanity still stubbornly clinging to life after the Ragnarok, and generously share our whips and bullets with them.

But aside from cruel leather, cold steel, and the hard heart to wield them both, we want to ensure that the arts survive as well. Toward that end, we are going to write a story. We wanted to store fine literature, paintings, and sculpture in the Ministry Culture Bunker and Catastratorium, but after making a go of it found that that stuff takes up too much space. We are putting some Grecian and Chinese pottery to use, storing Kool Aid and pencils and whatnot, but anything without an apparent utilitarian application was left outside.

We felt it was up to us to do someting to ensure the written word would survive beyond the Apocalypse.

We are now crafting the literature that the mutated inheritors of the cursed Earth might care to read sometime, maybe between avoiding deathbot patrols or after outrunning a zombie horde. It's the first fiction piece co-written and serialized by participating Ministers and, although the planned release date is sometime after Doomsday, we will share drafts with our loyal reader.

Readers. Loyal readers.

Forthwith, the first installment of our first stab at serial writing:

Part 1: Diesel Angst

Alexei Weber detested the bus.

The one he waited for every morning was enough to loathe, just on its own. The engine’s rushing roar hurt his ears, and sometimes the hurt migrated between them and became a headache. The mephitic stench of burning diesel fuel singed his nostrils and made him nauseous. He didn’t like the tint on the windows, allowing those inside to see out- and in all probability laugh at him, he felt- yet preventing outsiders from seeing in. He never was quite sure what he’d find inside, hiding behind those opaque windows. Even the scale of the thing: too long, too high, with too-big tires, unsettled him.

The bus stop nearest his apartment was shabby and dark. Litter tended to accumulate there, blown on winds that in other parts were pleasant, but by the time they reached his shabby end of this shabby city were hostile. Regardless of the season and time of day, the bus stop was always in deep shadow. The old office buildings and millworks that dominated those dozen forlorn blocks of the North End weren’t good for much else now than as obstacles. The economy was long gone, leaving only huge brick husks that blocked the most direct route to somewhere else. It made grim sense to Alexei that the ones on his street would block the sun, too.

And beyond hating the bus just for being a bus, he resented it. He resented that he was reduced to riding it. He resented that the city was so broke it only ran twice a day. He resented that the only job he could land was downtown and much too far to walk, and beneath him. He resented having to live in his tiny walk-up apartment. He resented the dumb luck that put him there, and the poor decisions that kept him there.

Everything that Alexei Weber had ever done wrong was made manifest in the bus, and it came to remind him every morning.

He is, however, the more famous buckethead. For now.

Thanks, GL, for this edifying and enlightening yet soul-sucking video clip.

The Ministry would like to extend felicitations to Murdoc, of Murdoc Online, which blog just celebrated its third blogoversary. We would also like to note that for all his shameless backpatting, the Ministry is still five days older, and wiser. If not nearly as popular.

Welcome to the 79th edition of the Carnival of the Recipes, hosted by your friends and eventual overlords here at the Ministry of Minor Perfidy.

This Carnival is a bit of a departure for us. For more than thirty centuries, the Ministry has been the leading institution for Eschatology (end-times studies) worldwide. We have been monitoring man's inhumanity to man and measuring the potential for pan-species disaster - especially the threats posed by zombie invasion and giant fighting space robots - since before Hammurabi was in short pants. We spend our days in the John of Patmos Memorial Library and Gift Shop staring into the chthonian depths of human depravity, and our nights in the Carl Sagan Observatory scanning the heavens for the sinister telltale glint of diffuse starlight on titanium skin.

All this gloom and doom does tend to wear on the soul. It is easy to lose perspective. As they say, when one stares into the abyss, the abyss looks into you. This is actually literally true, by the way; when one is involved in tendentious cross-dimensional profit repatriation negotiations with elder powers, you don't have much time for pizza and beer. When Dread Chthulu is your opponent's lead counsel these things don't seem to matter as much as girding your psyche against gibbering madness from beyond.

However, it is important to remind ourselves that to most people things like pizza, beer, and volleyball do matter. When the apocalypse comes and the select few among you who we allow to take shelter in our Catastratorium, the nerve center of our global operations, need to eat, it is crucial that we have more than protein pills and MREs for you.

To that end, I have been leading a task force dedicated to perfecting the art of eating well under duress. Ancient crafts like brewing, baking, cheesemaking and animal husbandry are being adapted for long-term viability in underground caverns. Our best gnostic chirurgeons have teamed with our most elite scientists to make stunning advances in vat-grown meat and high-yield hydroponic farming. I think you will be well impressed, those among you who survive, when you are sipping a fine Dortmunder-style lager as the atomic bombs pound the surface far above.

For this, you see, is my stock in trade. My compatriots are stockpiling arms and radiation medication as we speak. And though I certainly have made sure I know where my 12 gauge, .45 revolver, and Louisville Slugger are, I also feel it is crucial to remember the finer things that buff the rough edges off a painful existence. If we met on the Serengeti, I would be the man in the impeccable linen suit with a camp table and a shaker of ice-cold gin. If we met in deepest space, we would dine in fine casual luxury on pizza margherita preserved indefinitely in hard vacuum and baked in the intense heat of fusion engine exhaust. And when the zombies roam or the robots maraud at will, when humankind must stand side by side with our greatest allies, the dolphin and octopus, to fight a proxy war against the menace that threatens to end us all, you (some of you, at least) will take some solace in the small homely comforts we provide.

For to live on in the face of disaster is merely animal. To live well, with panache and élan in the face of the grimmest apocalypse, well, that is human!

So come! Cross the threshold of the great double doors of the Catastratorium!

Come! Don a grey guest tunic and take a seat at the polished obsidian slab in the main cavern!

Come! See what elite guests have gathered for stimulating conversation and nonpariel apres-doom cuisine!

Come! Admire the unique and curious artifacts we have collected over three millennia! But don't touch that! It would be better if that statute of Yog-Soth-Oth didn't instantly cast your mind into insanity , don't you think?

Come! Taste what toothsome delights our kichen staff have concocted, marvel at the astonishing variety of potluck the guests have brought!

Come! Raise your glass and toast the indomitable spirit of humankind!

To the future!

Now... what have we to eat??

Amuse gueles, hors d'oeuvres and lighter fare:

Marsha Hudnall of A Weight Lifted brings us a sort of Napoleon, a stacked dish of foccaccia, grilled vegetables and scrambled eggs that they call Veggie Egg Foccaccia.

Jacqueline Passey sends along a Costa Rican recipe, Gallo Pinto, which is a rice-and-bean based dish good for breakfast, side dish, or hangover cure. Salud!

Accompaniments and sidekicks of the primarily taterific variety:

The BBQ General gives us his first submission ever to the Carnival, with The General's Home Fries, an exacting and detailed recipe for delicious-sounding fried potatoes full of sound advice and culinary information. Moreover, the General seems a resourceful and detail-oriented type, the sort who would do well in a secret underground lair. Lucky for him, it is easy to maintain oil at a steady 375 degrees Fahrenheit when your heat source is a small fusion generator.

The Blog d'Elisson sends a dinner postmortem run-down that includes a recipe for oven-fried potato wedges. In my youth in Ohio, we called these jo-jo potatoes, only G-d knows why. You may call them anything you want, as long as you call them delectable.

From the Glittering Eye we get a recipe for the great French classic pommes Anna. I can offer some advice for aspirants to this culinary height: wait. Having wrestled with this recipe a few times, I have learned that the most important thing you can do is go read a book and wait, wait, wait for the timer to go off. Trust your skills. Trust your stove. Pommes Anna takes time and patience, and both are rewarded. À votre santé!

The Course Where We Get Down To Business and Dispose Of the Quisling Spy Among Us (Main Dishes)

Once our servants have cleaned up the mess (our apologies...), sit back and enjoy a dish of Ad-Lib Indian Lentil Stew from Allan at AllanThinks. It's simple, it's cheap, it's easy. And, knowing lentils like I do, I know for a fact that this recipe is infinitely extensible. Kale; tomatoes; cinnamon, cardamon, turmeric, and cumin; peas. Whatever, really, you like. Apki Lambi Umar Ke Liye!

The Technogypsy gets back to his rural roots with Bambi Loaf and Bambi Stew, two great-sounding venison dishes. You kill it, you eat it; Dick Cheney nearly feasted on long pig.

Shawn Lea of Everything and Nothing proffer a very quick, simple, and tasty Mexican chicken soup. Salud otra vez!

The Physics Geek increases the thermal energy underneath a kettle of continental bean soup. Physics Geek gets it; soups and stews are perfect candidates for fusion-exhaust cooking. After the meal, please follow the green line on the floor to your new assignment. I trust you will find it... amenable.

Triticale, the Wheat/Rye guy, gives us a bifurcating recipe which is first a simple chicken breast in salsa, and can be turned into the spectacularly delicious Thai soup, Tom Kha Kai. Asian food is the key to happiness; I know this to be true.

Ever the resourceful sort, Minister Buckethead has found a number of recipes made with the contents of US Military standard-issue MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). Here is Pizza, several desserts, a number of fairly involved recipes, an old post from Blackfive, the paratrooper of love on this topic, and this page on survivalist food in general. The McIlhenney company has a book for sale of MRE recipes using the little bottle of Tabasco Sauce that comes in some versions. To be honest, we at the Ministry aspire for greater things than this, but we acknowledge that sometimes keeping body and soul together means doing what you must.

Breads, the Love Of My Life

Sun Comprehending Glass has a great-sounding recipe for honey wheat rolls made with sourdough starter. After the robots come, all bread will be naturally leavened. She will do well to perfect this recipe.

third world country submits a bread machine recipe that is both hearty and delicious. I am reminded of Ezekiel bread, but without all the hectoring righteousness.

I myself submit a recipe for miche, a rough country French sourdough loaf of impressive size. It is based on the famous bread of Lionel Poilane, but I like to add a little rye flour for extra dimension. Get used to this one. It will one day be your daily bread.

Degustational denouments:

Annamaria of Bunny? submits a recipe for Cherry Cobbler Upside-Down (or How To Take Care Of Sick Husbands) that apparently has curative powers. Impressive... she will do well on our team of chirurgeons.

Mensa Barbie has a Rum and Berry Danish Tart. The Danes really do know their stuff.

From The Headmistress at The Common Room comes a wheat-free egg-free orange and chocolate chip pound cake for the wheat allergic among us. There are many fine people in this land advancing the cause of alternative cuisine. Whether motivated by celiac disease, veganism, or Biblical mandate, they are making great strides in perfecting toothsome recipes that, though they lack what we commonly understand to be the necessary culinary requirements, are just as (if not more) nutritous) as the originals and display an amazing ingenuity. Support your local organic farmers, craft brewers, bakers, and cheesemakes, and your local homeschool association! When the zombies come, they will be the foundation on which we all stand.

In The Headlights has one of my favorite simple desserts, a French country confection called clafoutis. She makes it with cherry, which is the classic choice. It is also wonderful with blueberries, apricots, peaches, and (seriously now...) stewed prunes.

KeeWee's Corner has brought a perfect capper to the evening: Bailey's Irish Cream Cake. I am not normally a fan of boxed baked goods mixes, but they do definitely have their place. One of these places is liquor-soaked bundt cakes. Slainte!

Next week, things get a bit brighter as Sun Comprehending Glass hosts the next edition of the Carnival of the Recipes. Send your submissions to recipe.carnival@gmail.com by noon Saturday for inclusion. If you wish to host a future edition of the Carnival of the Recipes, send an email to the same address with the word "host" in the subject line.

As the meal comes to an end and you, our esteemed guests nibble on nuts and sip digestifs, it is time to reflect on what we have accomplished. You are reading this thanks to a stupendously complicated set of cooperating technologies nearly inconceivable twenty years ago. Yet, no matter how much our world changes in superficial ways, some things abide. Lentils are still cheap, fried potatoes are still delicious, and all of us put on our pants one leg at a time. Except our dolphin readers; they don't wear pants.

Thank you all for coming; I do regret to inform you that you cannot leave. The areas not converted to radioactive glass by the robot's first attack are crawling with brain-eating zombies. There is no escape, but there is hope. Through that door you will find your new quarters, and Ministers GeekLethal and Buckethead are waiting to show you to them. Later, Minister Patton will give you your new assignments. Life is simple here; pitch in or feed the zombies. When Minister Ross returns from the surface, we will have a better idea just how long we are going to be here.

Our problems are all behind us. It is now up to us to fight the future.

Did anyone bring a guitar?