A Taste of Channel Zilch
My journey to space and godhood starts in a puddle of shit.
I look into her green eyes and think: Heloise Chin wants something from Mick Oolfson. My Y chromosome does a happy dance. Even though I am old and dull and ugly I’ve got a shot at this singular woman. Whatever happens tonight, I vow on my honor as a testicle-bearing citizen to ask Heloise Chin out on a date.
BOOMGROWL! The Energia's thrusters roar to life. Acceleration jams the seat hard into my spine.
“Whee doggies!” I whoop. Back into the wild black yonder.
Space shuttle Enterprise scrams on treadmarks of smoke up, up, up into the grey Kazakh sky.
Put a defrocked astronaut, a geek goddess, a space hippy, a rocket mechanic, and a billionaire Trekkie in one room and conversation naturally turns to The Future.
...
Hel says, “You buy that Singularity crap, huh, Merz?”
Karabuk’s eyes stay wide with astonishment. “Heloise Chin a cybernetic pessimist? Can you, of all people, deny that progress is ever swiftening? Does not Moore teach us that computers double in power every eighteen months?”
Hel says derisively, “Moore’s Law is going to haul us all to Singufairyland, huh? You forget hardware’s the easy part.”
Gritch butts in, “What’s this Singularity bidness you all yammering about? Care to break it down for us simple rocket science types.”
Hel doesn’t jump right in and I’ve read plenty of sci-fi so I decide to stick my neck out. “The Singularity… That’s Vernor Vinge, right? Computers jacking up their own brainpower until they have an IQ orgasm.”
“You go first, Darthy. What is Singularity Santa going to leave under your tree?”
Darthy smiles and looks a little sheepish. “I know what you all are going to call me but I have to be honest. I’d ask for food for all the starving kids, no more hunger in the world.”
Gritch razzes, “Damn space hippy.”
Darthy nods happily.
I keep her talking, “So how would St. Singularity work this miracle?”
Dar gives a wide-eyed search-me shrug. “Maybe it will invent a hat-sized nano-brewery that eats dead leaves and sunlight and excretes nourishing butterscotch pudding. Who knows, Mick? It’s the fucking Singularity.”
That cracks me up. Hel joins in and then most of the others.
Hel, “Great slogan, Dar: Work for the Fucking Singularity and ye shall sup eternally on butterscotch hat poop.”