Pet Peeve:

People who talk about their pet peeves. I mean, telling others what annoys you the most? That's just asking for it.

Genesis v2.0

Name42 says (10:28 PM):
LaTeX, man.

Name42 says (10:28 PM):
YOU DON'T MESS WITH LaTeX

Name34 says (10:28 PM):
Whaddabout WolframAlpha?

Name42 says (10:29 PM):
NO DUDE

Name42 says (10:29 PM):
LaTeX

Name42 says (10:29 PM):
DO YOU NOT COMPREHEND THE EPICNESS OF LaTeX

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
OKAY

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
SO ONE DAY GOD WAS CREATING THE EARTH FOR A FEW DAYS

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
THEN HE TOOK A BREAK

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
BECAUSE HE WAS BORED

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
THAT DAY HAPPENED TO BE A SUNDAY

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
AND DURING THAT DAY, HE DECIDED THE EARTH WASN'T EPIC ENOUGH

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
SO HE DECIDED TO STEP IT UP A BIT

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
AND HE MADE LaTeX

Name42 says (10:30 PM):
NOW YOU KNOW

Name34 says (10:30 PM):
...

The Wayfarer

The external thermometer was a most peculiar one. The logarithmic scale was unsettling in the most--nor was the lack of units very comforting. Johnny had done it deliberately, of course, the intent being to ruthlessly spite his obsessive-compulsive copilot. Though now the actual unit the thermometer measured in faded from their collective memory, that of Johnny and his engineers.

As the copilot sat in the cockpit, he would obsessively ask for--well, everything. Their altitude, bearings, air pressure, velocity, volume of fuel left, engines left, fuel burning rate, apparent time dilation, dimension, wormhole generation speed--and would always end the list with the external temperature. The crew would have to respond in the quickest; the slightest hesitation made the copilot break into a sweat, tremble, and erupt into an uproar of yelling at the crew and demanding the values. And the values were given to him just as candy is given to a baby. Johnny, unfazed by this act, would undoubtedly provide the last value--without the units. And to add a finishing touch, he would always turn, with a smile, to his copilot and mouth calmly, "That's right. An external temperature of 110. Surely you don't expect it to be measured in centigrade without the engines boiling over?"

And thus they tortured copilot so. Eventually it proved too much. The copilot developed a lethal fever; he sat there phasing in and out delirium, on the bounds of life and death. The craft lost a vital controller, and they wandered gravely off course. But the Johnny and the crew continued with the cruel torture, aggravating the copilot's condition. The copilot's life slowly slipped away from him, though Johnny did not care in the slightest. Such was his triumph over the conventional, bureaucratically dictatorial grip of tradition and convention.

Johnny remembered that day. That very afternoon. He stood there resolute, glaring at his superior towering before him with an even more resolute counter-glare. The credit was lost, and he was the commander of the forces in a lost battle. His superior shook his head--no units. For want of the unit, the mark was lost; for want of the mark, the paper was lost; for want of the paper, the course was lost; for want of the course, his career was lost. He remembered walking out of that room after the damning statment "Off with you! Go become a pilot or something." The hallway was lined with his colleagues, comrades, all pitilessly staring, jeering at him. Johnny didn't care. They were brainwashed, brainwahsed by the oppressive upper powers. He was a rebel. He didn't need their sympathy.

And now, they crowded above the copilot; a prisoner of war, an enemy that has fallen into their hands now. Johnny was the torture master, and now poised over him, ready to squeeze the last drop of blood from his captive foe. The air turned bone-chillingly cold, as if anticipating the pathetic fallacy it can draw in a narrative. With the last of his energy, the copilot forced his eyes open and croaked out. "The...t...t-t-t-temperature...?"

Johnny smiled. He grinned an evil grin, stretching devillishly from one ear to the other. "Negative fourty, my copilot. Negative fourty."

Almost like a zombie, the copilot suddenly sat up. His face turned white, his hands trembled; and with a piercing cry, uttered forth, "What are the damn UNITS?!"

There was no answer. Nor was there a need. The copilot fell down dead immediately. An eerie cold settled into the room. Johnny sat back. His expression was one of infinite satisfaction.

Like a wise king, Johnny opened the log, looked over his crewmates, and simply declared, "The fool. The fool he is. A damn fool. All ought to know that negative fourty farenheit is the same in centigrade. Away with the body."

As if mourning the death of the copilot, the ship let out a gutteral moan. Though no one noticed that the engines were no longer functioning. Nor did anyone notice that that the fuel burning rate became negative, number of engines irrational, altitude complex and dimension undefined.

Nor did anyone ever remember that the thermomter read in Kelvin.