Jesus Christ! What’s wrong with us as a civilization? Haven’t we watched Battlestar Galactica? Terminator? Blade Runner? The Matrix? Don’t they know that creating robotic lifeforms leads only to an ass-drubbing of humanity by the pissed of Children of Mankind? But nooo, we just keep fucking around. Take for example this bullshit from last week’s Digital Content Expo in Japan. What we got here is the HRP-4C robot performing an entire dance routine with a contingent of soon to be outdated meat sacs. No, seriously. Don’t you understand that it’s an infinitesimally small leap from performing dance routines to nuking our cities and drilling our skulls with robo-dongs? We are precipitating our own doom.

Hit the jump for what is a taste at our future obliteration.

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Dinosaur talk always strikes me the same as space talk. That is, in the sense that there’s a ton of interesting conjecture, but I’m always a smidge skeptical. But sometimes when the news is interesting enough, it’s worth repeating. Studies have dropped in the past couple of days suggesting that the King of All Dinosaurs, Mr. Tyrannosaurus Rex was a cannibal. Say it ain’t so! According to a crack team of crackpot scientists – that isn’t fair, they’re in all likelihood more brilliant than I could imagine – the gashes on one T. rex suggests that it could have only been made by another of the same species.

Like I said, we’re taking leaps of impressive speculation here.

Huffington Post:

“They’re the kind of marks that any big carnivore could have made, but T. rex was the only big carnivore in western North America 65 million years ago,” Nicholas R. Longrich of Yale University said in a statement.

Longrich and colleagues report their findings in Friday’s edition of the journal PLoS ONE.

They found 17 fossils with deep V-shaped gouges of a type identified as being made by T. rex. Of those, four were remains of T. rex themselves.

It seems likely the marks were made during scavenging from a dead dinosaur, the researchers said.
“It does seem improbable that Tyrannosaurus routinely hunted full-grown members of its own species,” the researchers wrote.

However, they added, it is possible that combat led to casualties, with the dead becoming convenient sources of food for the victors. “Still, compelling evidence for predation in Tyrannosaurus remains elusive.

So well then! I mean, yeah, what the hell is the story worth? Some interesting guesswork and a handful of possibly this and possibly that. But I mean, yeah! There you go. I think more interesting than the fact that the there were T. rexes walking around in North America. For sure, millions and zillions of years ago. But still, it’s interesting to imagine that the very land we’re smashing about on, at one point in time, houses cannibalistic insane-o creatures of unfathomable fright and might.

I think it’s safe to say the Brothers Omega are awaiting Aronofsky’s Black Swan with the fervor. There’s nothing I enjoy more than one of his late-autumn/early winter releases. The world is dark, the air smells of last-gasps, and the wind bites. What better way to knuckle down and get through the Death Months than a nice depressing movie? Hell yeah! Black Swan looks to continue this pleasant tradition. I look forward to enjoying this new, halluciengic flick of his. Then I’ll quietly retire to my room, and contemplate death while holding a drill to my head like I’m out of fucking PI.

With that said, hit the jump for gorgeous international posters promoting this forthcoming mind-fuck-heart-rape.

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Oh shit! Fallout: New Vegas is mine, and we’re up and running. Took the little glorious piece of software into my nerdungeonhovel, and we took a liking to one another quickly. I don’t know if it’s love at first sight, but it’s certainly lust at first glance.

From the moment I awake, there is no reprieve from the Beast. He chases me on my way to work, his hot breath burning the hairs off the back of my neck. All day he skulks about my place of business, steaming up my glass door and flexing his gargantuan muscles. He drools all over the floor and the janitor gets a second degree burn trying to mop it up. My co-workers lock themselves in their offices and bolt for the exit when they think he’s not looking.

Most of them make it out alive.

Finally, I clock out for the day. I pack my bags and grab my wallet. Walking to my car, I have no fear for I know I shall defeat the Beast.

His name is Comics and we battle every Wednesday.

Welcome to Variant Covers!

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Well, isn’t this embarrassing. A star way out in a distant galaxy was trying to off itself per usual fashion, courtesy of the supernova. But unfortunately for the son of a bitch, its dazzling explosion was muffled by two huge dust clouds that were cast off before the star died. Bummer, yo. Not only is this poor star about to go out, but it didn’t even suffer the dignity of being able to complete its supernova. Carry on my wayward star, may you get the respect in your afterlife that you failed to achieve in this dimension.

How about a look at the SHIELD Helicarrier from the upcoming Avengers’ flick? Sold? Of course you are. If you’re reading this website you’re either horribly lost, or a nerd. Or, depending on what you were typing into a search box that let you to this den of depraved and debauched acts, both. These designs are by George Hull, and are being directed into your gray matter courtesy of io9.

What do you think of the look? I like the turbines that that use in the comic books, but I can learn to love this take on the classic flying bastard.

When has Dexter Morgan passed the point of no return? When has the dude finally fucked up far too righteously to recover from? I ask, because if the dude hasn’t gotten there yet, he’s getting precariously close. If he hasn’t crossed the Rubicon, he’s certainly nuzzling up next to it.

Here’s a point for Would-Be savers of rape and homicide victims: when you’re trying to calm them down, don’t have them in a headlock. If you’re trying to assure them that they’re okay, don’t do it while administering a rear naked chokehold. Our boy Dexter misses that essential point in this episode, while trying to calm down the female he saved from Boyd’s writhing stache of prowess, Lumen.

“No no, seriously calm down! Everything is cool! Ignore the shed I’ve got you locked in, or the fast that I’m trying to give you the Boston Crab, or that I killed someone. Everything is fine. Dope. Solid even.”

Dexter spends the entire episode spiraling out of control. His life is in tatters, his existential status a tailspin of tremendous splendor. The dude just offed the coolest mustache in the state of Florida. Dang. His hot Irish baby sitter just quit. Double dang. And some uppity broad who isn’t cool with getting locked up in alligator country needs to be dealt with.

What’s a dude to do?

Why, consult Harry!

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[This! Is! Mad Men! is a recap of the newest developments of Don Draper and his lovable gang of capitalist sleazeballs. Sometimes it’s liveblogged, sometimes not. In the spirit of the show, the post itself will often be sexist and drunk. Apologies ahead of time.]

Why do we put up with the bullshit in our lives? Why do we drag our existences through the mud? Knowing that we only have one-way tickets on Spaceship Earth, why don’t we do more to enjoy the ride?

The short answer — most of us don’t even know.

Neither does Don Draper.

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Debate over.

Han never rocked this hard.