0100010001000101 0110110101000001010001110110111001100101
* * *
Fact of the Day
The easiest way to tell if someone is faking binary knowledge is to count the characters of their professed binary. Each letter in binary contains six characters, which ensures that any word in binary has characters in the multiple of six.
Using a binary alphabet, see if you can decipher the two words of this edition of Your Feature Presentation.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
Cherry chapstick. Clean shaven with long sideburns. A golden fleece styled to perfection around his pretty kissy face. Blue-green eyes. A lad of profound ego and conceit.
On his body, he donned a tie-dye dashiki with a feathered collar and a beaded necklace tightly latched around his skimpy throat. The dashiki raveled down his lean torso, covering as far down as his posterior, which was firmly fixed in a pair of bootcut jeans, which were restitched with a swirl of the design you'd find on a red bandana. Stitched in such a way to mimic the swerves of a drill, his pants were only topped off with a spritz of silver glitter from the waist down to the heel, where his feet were entrenched in Donald Duck, ankle-high socks.
In the corner of the camera, we can see the shoulder of an individual with a similar dashiki donned facing the young man, though we can't make out who it is. The Patriarch of Pretty, with his index finger raised, seems to speak with the vivaciousness of a certain Adolf character that commanded a lot of authority in his day.
Ripplemagne:
"Before you is the boundless ensnarement of victory! I tell you, my friends that you are the true heroes of this world. Stride and powerful, you do your job to make this world a better place every day."
It would seem that the young man is speaking to more than just the individual whose shoulder is in the feed.
Ripplemagne:
"Reach high into the sky and clasp the moon in your palm, my friends! For the power that you wield is without compare! Such trinkets as the moon are but mere Chips Ahoy in the hands of the Herculean, awe-inspiring fervor in your hearts!
Tonight, we leave this simple abode as not individuals, but a collective unit. Nay, a brigade. Nay, an armada. Nay! A burning chariot of the very hand of God, enriching the mangy, shit-dried surface of this world with an aptitude transcending that of even the power that ol' Chairman Mao is believed to possess. Hear me, comrades! For even the endless expanse of omnipotence this man is believed to possess is but a mere pimple on a cow's ass in the vast universe of complexities, whether structural, functional or gestalt.
I see you clamor for the honor that you so rightly deserve! The unbridled adoration of this world! Compatriots, I promise you that these men, women and children will one day look upon you as constellations in the stars! They will admire you just a mere fraction of a percent of the quantity in which you deserve...
...For no man is capable of fathoming the sheer splendor that exudes from this chariot of God. No man can understand just how much your appendages are used to forge a golden road to honor and integrity in this world.
Realize this. Every last one of you is irreplaceable and under this structure, no man is left behind. Should one of us fall, I will be there to take you in hand, hold you to the Highest heavens, allow the bliss of the sun's rays to do you justice in the only way that this undeserving world can... and give you proper funeral. All of us shall be in attendance for such a tragedy, but I want you to say this...
I believe!
I believe! I believe that I will not fall! I will not stumble! I will not be separated from my brotherhood! Because under this banner, we forge a rocket ship into the sunset, to infinity and beyond on the belief and strident willpower that rocks our elliptical orbit off kilter. We believe! Say it with me, friends! We believe!"
At this point, the camera zooms out to reveal Ripplemagne standing like General Patton before his uncountable armada. The young man's nimble fingers rise from his side to place his palm upon a number of their tops with great honor and commitment to the team.
Yes, to those of you astute enough to figure it out, Ripplemagne is giving a motivational speech... to his hair. With a zany grin, the young man coasts his slender finger tips through his goldie locks with the pride of a father whose son just won a gold medal in the Olympics.
Ripplemagne:
"Your loyalty to this team brings a tear to my eye, my friends. Let us advance into battle."
* * *
Five minutes later.
The prodigious King of Hearts is in battle, alright. Elbow firmly affixed to a slate wall beside him and his hand coasting along behind his head, the suave young fellow was at the side of a bronze-skinned, blonde haired woman with a bust extending from her baby blue tube top that'd make Pamela Anderson qq.
Ripplemagne:
"Hey, toots. You ever play house?"
Big Titted Bitch:
"Excuse me?"
Ripplemagne:
"No? A'ight, chica, here's how it'll work. You play mama and I'll be your... very hungry newborn baby."
As he says this, the young man's eyes fix on the busty ho's cleavage as his hands rise in a clutchy way and his tongue hangs from his mouth. But before his hands can perform a little squeeze squeeze, a crack is heard as Ripplemagne's body spins around on one toe, performing a 360 before tipping over on the floor.
Yeah, he got slapped.
Big Titted Bitch:
"Pig!"
* * *
The next thirty seconds of this episode of Your Feature Presentation is a compilation of slaps Ripplemagne received that day from hitting on wimmenz in an appropriate manner.
* * *
Having a left cheek as red as Roman Polanski's ass during gay sex at this point with a thin red vein running along it beneath his flesh, the young man approaches yet another woman. This time, mildly irked, the quirky Ripplemagne has his arms crossed and speaks through gritted teeth.
There's a bit of hesitation on his face at this point as he doesn't even feel like doing this anymore, but he forces out the words. Though, it certainly lacks the smooth sonor his voice usually has and seems more fragmented and dull.
Ripplemagne:
"Hey, bitch. Do you know the difference between a hamburger and a blow job?"
This time, he's before a very serious looking woman with long brown hair and glasses. Oh, and should be noted she's in a business suit. This should be good.
Uptight Business Bitch:
"No, I do not."
Uh oh. English accent. You could virtually see the "oh, fuck me" look on Ripplemagne's face as he just knew that this next slap was going to hurt like Hell. Hesitating and sighing before hitting her with the punchline, Ripplemagne seemed to flinch a little bit and attempt to cover his face.
Ripplemagne:
"Well, ya wanna do lunch? LOL!"
Yes, he just said the word "lol" while wincing one eye and holding his hands up in front of his face.
...But she didn't slap him. Lowering his hands, the young man glanced at the woman to see her smiling.
Uptight Business Bit-- Wait, what?:
"Sure. Just let me grab my coat."
Ripplemagne:
"...Hold on. I think I tricked you."
Obviously Fucking Slow As Shit Bi-- w8 wut?:
"No, I got the joke. It was very funny."
Ripplemagne:
"...Ew. That was too easy. Bye."
Strangely creeped out by the woman, Ripplemagne begins to walk off as the English woman pursues him, pinning him against the wall and smearing her lip gloss all over Ripplemagne's face as he cringes and tries to elude her forceful face pressing. Breaking free for a moment, he holds his head away as she caresses his chest to the stares and bewildered looks of everyone in the hotel lobby that they're in.
Ripplemagne:
"Okay! Okay! I think we're taking this a liiiittle too fast. Lets try this! I'm Ripplema--"
Trying to push the woman away, Ripplemagne's face is engulfed again as she begins to kiss from his lips down his neck and just then, cups him below his waist, sending him cross-eyed and nearly jumping out of his socks. His voice growing considerably more panicked and high pitched, Ripplemagne locks his staggered eyes on her arrogant eyes.
Ripplemagne:
"Aye-aye-aye! Why, yes, Mommy Dearest. That would be my genitalia! You can let go now!"
Crazy Bitch:
"You are so adorable."
Ripplemagne:
"I-I-I don't think you're listening! Hey, I-I'm a professional wrestler. I'm fighting this nignog named Damiel Santiago this week. How 'bout I introduce you to him before my match, ye?"
Crazy Bitch:
"Mm. You must be so fit. I can already tell from..."
She squeezes him tightly downstairs as his lower lip droops and pupils dilate, the cornea in his eyeballs quivering. Getting way too much satisfaction out of grasping him, the crazy bitch finally releases him, but only slides her hand up his dashiki, rubbing up his abs and then to his pectoral, but in this effort, Ripplemagne finally manages to pull away.
Ripplemagne:
"Okay! Enough! Stop! Stop! I will not be a victim! I ain't no holla back girl, you chauvinistic pig and I will not just be another notch on your belt!"
Crazy Bitch:
"Oh, hush. Come to mama."
With eyes firmly locked on him, she lunges at him like a starving zombie as he stumbles backwards into a nearby broom closet.
Ripplemagne:
"No, no! Wait! Can't we get to know each other first?!"
Edging forward with a heaving breath from her chest, the woman steps forward and slams the door shut. From behind it, we can hear the pandemonium continue, but none of the words involved. It's obvious that there's a big struggle going on inside the supply closet with boxes falling from shelves and things falling over. After a moment, the door barges open as Ripplemagne attempts to dive from the closet.
Ripplemagne:
"This is wrong! This is wrong! I didn't say yes! I didn't say yes!"
From inside, we can hear what sounds like Zool from Ghostbusters as the zany lad is held by both of his ankles, while he claws for freedom at the floor. Already down to his skimpy Casper boxer shorts, he is dragged farther inside, screaming as the door slams behind them.
Ripplemagne:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
* * *
A voice-over.
The White Mage:
"Due to ze explicit content of ze rest of zis video package, we have wiped it from Your Feature Presentation. However, as a result of Monsieur Ripplemagne's monumental ego, I am urged to inform you, ze Your Feature Presentation viewers, that Monsieur Ripplemagne later 'bagged' ze numbers of all of ze mademoiselles who struck him earlier.
Merci for watchin, Ripplemagniacs. Join us next time and remember to believe it!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
Fact of the Day
The easiest way to tell if someone is faking binary knowledge is to count the characters of their professed binary. Each letter in binary contains six characters, which ensures that any word in binary has characters in the multiple of six.
Using a binary alphabet, see if you can decipher the two words of this edition of Your Feature Presentation.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
Cherry chapstick. Clean shaven with long sideburns. A golden fleece styled to perfection around his pretty kissy face. Blue-green eyes. A lad of profound ego and conceit.
On his body, he donned a tie-dye dashiki with a feathered collar and a beaded necklace tightly latched around his skimpy throat. The dashiki raveled down his lean torso, covering as far down as his posterior, which was firmly fixed in a pair of bootcut jeans, which were restitched with a swirl of the design you'd find on a red bandana. Stitched in such a way to mimic the swerves of a drill, his pants were only topped off with a spritz of silver glitter from the waist down to the heel, where his feet were entrenched in Donald Duck, ankle-high socks.
In the corner of the camera, we can see the shoulder of an individual with a similar dashiki donned facing the young man, though we can't make out who it is. The Patriarch of Pretty, with his index finger raised, seems to speak with the vivaciousness of a certain Adolf character that commanded a lot of authority in his day.
Ripplemagne:
"Before you is the boundless ensnarement of victory! I tell you, my friends that you are the true heroes of this world. Stride and powerful, you do your job to make this world a better place every day."
It would seem that the young man is speaking to more than just the individual whose shoulder is in the feed.
Ripplemagne:
"Reach high into the sky and clasp the moon in your palm, my friends! For the power that you wield is without compare! Such trinkets as the moon are but mere Chips Ahoy in the hands of the Herculean, awe-inspiring fervor in your hearts!
Tonight, we leave this simple abode as not individuals, but a collective unit. Nay, a brigade. Nay, an armada. Nay! A burning chariot of the very hand of God, enriching the mangy, shit-dried surface of this world with an aptitude transcending that of even the power that ol' Chairman Mao is believed to possess. Hear me, comrades! For even the endless expanse of omnipotence this man is believed to possess is but a mere pimple on a cow's ass in the vast universe of complexities, whether structural, functional or gestalt.
I see you clamor for the honor that you so rightly deserve! The unbridled adoration of this world! Compatriots, I promise you that these men, women and children will one day look upon you as constellations in the stars! They will admire you just a mere fraction of a percent of the quantity in which you deserve...
...For no man is capable of fathoming the sheer splendor that exudes from this chariot of God. No man can understand just how much your appendages are used to forge a golden road to honor and integrity in this world.
Realize this. Every last one of you is irreplaceable and under this structure, no man is left behind. Should one of us fall, I will be there to take you in hand, hold you to the Highest heavens, allow the bliss of the sun's rays to do you justice in the only way that this undeserving world can... and give you proper funeral. All of us shall be in attendance for such a tragedy, but I want you to say this...
I believe!
I believe! I believe that I will not fall! I will not stumble! I will not be separated from my brotherhood! Because under this banner, we forge a rocket ship into the sunset, to infinity and beyond on the belief and strident willpower that rocks our elliptical orbit off kilter. We believe! Say it with me, friends! We believe!"
At this point, the camera zooms out to reveal Ripplemagne standing like General Patton before his uncountable armada. The young man's nimble fingers rise from his side to place his palm upon a number of their tops with great honor and commitment to the team.
Yes, to those of you astute enough to figure it out, Ripplemagne is giving a motivational speech... to his hair. With a zany grin, the young man coasts his slender finger tips through his goldie locks with the pride of a father whose son just won a gold medal in the Olympics.
Ripplemagne:
"Your loyalty to this team brings a tear to my eye, my friends. Let us advance into battle."
* * *
Five minutes later.
The prodigious King of Hearts is in battle, alright. Elbow firmly affixed to a slate wall beside him and his hand coasting along behind his head, the suave young fellow was at the side of a bronze-skinned, blonde haired woman with a bust extending from her baby blue tube top that'd make Pamela Anderson qq.
Ripplemagne:
"Hey, toots. You ever play house?"
Big Titted Bitch:
"Excuse me?"
Ripplemagne:
"No? A'ight, chica, here's how it'll work. You play mama and I'll be your... very hungry newborn baby."
As he says this, the young man's eyes fix on the busty ho's cleavage as his hands rise in a clutchy way and his tongue hangs from his mouth. But before his hands can perform a little squeeze squeeze, a crack is heard as Ripplemagne's body spins around on one toe, performing a 360 before tipping over on the floor.
Yeah, he got slapped.
Big Titted Bitch:
"Pig!"
* * *
The next thirty seconds of this episode of Your Feature Presentation is a compilation of slaps Ripplemagne received that day from hitting on wimmenz in an appropriate manner.
* * *
Having a left cheek as red as Roman Polanski's ass during gay sex at this point with a thin red vein running along it beneath his flesh, the young man approaches yet another woman. This time, mildly irked, the quirky Ripplemagne has his arms crossed and speaks through gritted teeth.
There's a bit of hesitation on his face at this point as he doesn't even feel like doing this anymore, but he forces out the words. Though, it certainly lacks the smooth sonor his voice usually has and seems more fragmented and dull.
Ripplemagne:
"Hey, bitch. Do you know the difference between a hamburger and a blow job?"
This time, he's before a very serious looking woman with long brown hair and glasses. Oh, and should be noted she's in a business suit. This should be good.
Uptight Business Bitch:
"No, I do not."
Uh oh. English accent. You could virtually see the "oh, fuck me" look on Ripplemagne's face as he just knew that this next slap was going to hurt like Hell. Hesitating and sighing before hitting her with the punchline, Ripplemagne seemed to flinch a little bit and attempt to cover his face.
Ripplemagne:
"Well, ya wanna do lunch? LOL!"
Yes, he just said the word "lol" while wincing one eye and holding his hands up in front of his face.
...But she didn't slap him. Lowering his hands, the young man glanced at the woman to see her smiling.
Uptight Business Bit-- Wait, what?:
"Sure. Just let me grab my coat."
Ripplemagne:
"...Hold on. I think I tricked you."
Obviously Fucking Slow As Shit Bi-- w8 wut?:
"No, I got the joke. It was very funny."
Ripplemagne:
"...Ew. That was too easy. Bye."
Strangely creeped out by the woman, Ripplemagne begins to walk off as the English woman pursues him, pinning him against the wall and smearing her lip gloss all over Ripplemagne's face as he cringes and tries to elude her forceful face pressing. Breaking free for a moment, he holds his head away as she caresses his chest to the stares and bewildered looks of everyone in the hotel lobby that they're in.
Ripplemagne:
"Okay! Okay! I think we're taking this a liiiittle too fast. Lets try this! I'm Ripplema--"
Trying to push the woman away, Ripplemagne's face is engulfed again as she begins to kiss from his lips down his neck and just then, cups him below his waist, sending him cross-eyed and nearly jumping out of his socks. His voice growing considerably more panicked and high pitched, Ripplemagne locks his staggered eyes on her arrogant eyes.
Ripplemagne:
"Aye-aye-aye! Why, yes, Mommy Dearest. That would be my genitalia! You can let go now!"
Crazy Bitch:
"You are so adorable."
Ripplemagne:
"I-I-I don't think you're listening! Hey, I-I'm a professional wrestler. I'm fighting this nignog named Damiel Santiago this week. How 'bout I introduce you to him before my match, ye?"
Crazy Bitch:
"Mm. You must be so fit. I can already tell from..."
She squeezes him tightly downstairs as his lower lip droops and pupils dilate, the cornea in his eyeballs quivering. Getting way too much satisfaction out of grasping him, the crazy bitch finally releases him, but only slides her hand up his dashiki, rubbing up his abs and then to his pectoral, but in this effort, Ripplemagne finally manages to pull away.
Ripplemagne:
"Okay! Enough! Stop! Stop! I will not be a victim! I ain't no holla back girl, you chauvinistic pig and I will not just be another notch on your belt!"
Crazy Bitch:
"Oh, hush. Come to mama."
With eyes firmly locked on him, she lunges at him like a starving zombie as he stumbles backwards into a nearby broom closet.
Ripplemagne:
"No, no! Wait! Can't we get to know each other first?!"
Edging forward with a heaving breath from her chest, the woman steps forward and slams the door shut. From behind it, we can hear the pandemonium continue, but none of the words involved. It's obvious that there's a big struggle going on inside the supply closet with boxes falling from shelves and things falling over. After a moment, the door barges open as Ripplemagne attempts to dive from the closet.
Ripplemagne:
"This is wrong! This is wrong! I didn't say yes! I didn't say yes!"
From inside, we can hear what sounds like Zool from Ghostbusters as the zany lad is held by both of his ankles, while he claws for freedom at the floor. Already down to his skimpy Casper boxer shorts, he is dragged farther inside, screaming as the door slams behind them.
Ripplemagne:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
* * *
A voice-over.
The White Mage:
"Due to ze explicit content of ze rest of zis video package, we have wiped it from Your Feature Presentation. However, as a result of Monsieur Ripplemagne's monumental ego, I am urged to inform you, ze Your Feature Presentation viewers, that Monsieur Ripplemagne later 'bagged' ze numbers of all of ze mademoiselles who struck him earlier.
Merci for watchin, Ripplemagniacs. Join us next time and remember to believe it!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
