YSaC, Vol. 1008: So THAT’S where invisikitty went!
2011 June 8
Please Help i am worried about my cat
I put my cat on a sealed box with a small flask of hydrocyanic acid attached to a Geiger counter that actives the hammer that will break the flask of poison as soon as it detects an atom of radioactive material decay. I am really worried about my cat. Is he alive or dead? Please help
That is all.
(Actually, it’s probably worth pointing out that the cat will likely be just fine, because he’s ON the box, and not in it.)
Thanks, SF!
I hate it when people try to get the internet to do their homework for them!
Is he alive or dead? Depends. Do you think Fluffy is going to ingest the hydrocyanic acid before he suffocates (the box is sealed, after all)? You want an answer? OPEN THE BOX, STUPID!
*needs more caffeine*
Aw, come on, what’s in the box??
I am.
:points at box:
See?
All of you?
It’s hard to tell when you’re immaterial, I think around 75% of me is in the box.
Brad Pitt? Is that you? Se7en.
Well, in just the simple subatomic physics, near 80% of the space taken up by a given atom is empty space.
Even if the box were completely full of liquid lead, it would still be 80% empty. That Heisenberg cat purred that, without meddling in the state of affairs within the box by examining it, it remains in the flux of existence/non-existence.
We start in with the quantum physics, and suddenly the box is equally likely to contain the entire range of all feline matter, to no matter, to all anti-feline matter in the universe; so be careful around the can opener. (Remember too, anytime Quantum Physics starts to make sense, that you are required to roll for Sanity Check.)
I, personally, am still sorting out what regulation change means that middle-schoolers no longer have access to gamma-ray emitters, but do have access to hydrocyanic acids and radio-emissive triggers . . .
So, you’ve decided to go into physics. Good for you. Now understand that schindler’s cat scenario is not meant to be actually done, it was merely a theory put forth by Schindler. Thank you.
Schrödinger.
Schindler’s Cat – most depressing children’s movie ever made…
But I’ve often thought that “Schrödinger’s Litter Box” would make a great name for a dive bar.
Woah… when did the Ferret go aboriginal?
Yeah, the piano player Lucy van Pelt is always making inappropriate advances upon! <G>
Meh, physics never was my best subject.
No, no no… Schindler was the one RESCUING all the poor kitties from those gas-filled boxes.
And them making them work in his factories.
No wonder none of his shells ever worked.
Yeah, getting them to do anything was like … well … like herding cats.
Cats do pretty well in the middle-management positions though.
Did the Schindler cats wear red babushkas (because wearing a red coat would be silly)?
Taco, like this?
Ahh, I love The Oatmeal.
David:), man, the name was in the box when you made your comment, for Spice Christ’s sake!
I postulate that David:) is laughing at us, and that he can’t have been serious when he typed Schindler.
If it was intentional, than he has managed to seperate himself from the tolling community as stated below.
Also, a “Well played, Sir” would be in order.
As sneaky as Boba Fett in the third Star Trek movie.
I hate the tolling community. I want to drive around and then BAM, I don’t have exact change and my day is ruined.
Hi, Laurel! Haven’t seen you in a bit (I was also away for a while there). Tutu’s looking good!
Greetings, Lola!
I have had the unfortunate affliction known as ‘school’ for the past month or so, so have been unable to partake in my favourite sport of snarking. I am doing well now, though, so should be able to go up to bat, at least until camp in *checks watch* four days.
I must say, your hair looks most luscious.
I always use E-ZPass® when I’m tolling the community. Much more convenient.
It’s like a guy can’t make 20 or 30 simple mistakes on a daily basis without everyone jumping all over him.*
*Thanks to FM, this now sounds rather dirty and kinda fun actually.
All right now, I ain’t taking the blame for this. I can’t help that someone has flipped your Beavis and Butthead switch*. You know, where everything sounds/looks like sexual innuendo. My husband suffers from this affliction. It’s very sad. This is why I can’t eat cucumbers or corn dogs at home without having to hear moans and groans and “oh yeah, baby”‘s.
*”flipped your…switch”. Heh. Heh heh.
If you did you could be President.
Hehe “Taking the blame”
*Snicker*
*Butterfinger*
*Good n’ Plenty*
*Big League Chew*
*Snickers*
And with that, the circle is complete.
IT’S THE CIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRCLE OF LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE! AND IT MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVES US AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALL!
If you’ve read Terry Pratchett’s The Unadulterated Cat, you’ll know that there are two possible options: open the box and find a spitting ball of slightly radioactive hatred, or open the box and find the cat gone. All cats can teleport – the cat has looked at his situation and realised it doesn’t look good, and has attempted to get home. You will find him in two hours’ time, slightly confused, in your wardrobe.
I thought the teleporting cats was Heinlein — and they just used the skill to walk through walls.
According to Pratchett, they can travel in time as well – his explanation for domesticated cats (which just seem to appear, unlike dogs) is that a cat from the future took a wrong turn. Of course, he may have got the idea from Heinlein.
Well, we puny humans, with only 1/14th the olfactory ability; 1/9 the visual ability; 1/24 the audio ability of just the average cat, the means we lack the simple perception needed to use the clearly-obvious-to-cats graviton-aligned brane interfaces in our simple Newtonian perceptions.
Ok, so they had to cede being able to generally taste sweets; or see much color in stationary objects–but, Felinity is clearly working on correcting these flaws. Which seems to require letting whatever is “in” upholstered furniture “out” . . .
The cat is both alive and dead, but to really prove it you need to repeat the experiment by placing the cat either a) on a hot tin roof, b) in the hat, or c) in the cradle (silver spoon optional).
Schoedinger was one of the most brilliant scientists of his era. He was the very first to discover how to create a zombie cat.
A cat that lays around like a dead thing, rambles through the house in the middle of the night, and is constantly hungry …
How exactly is a zombie cat different from a regular cat?
Regular cats don’t require brains.
(Spoken as a long-time cat owner.)
Wasn’t that the cat from Pet Semetary?
(replying to ghostcat, I am)
(Sound like Yoda, you do :))
The problem with zombie cats is that they’re easily rendered harmless by Undead Strings.
Which happens to be the name of my Kronos Quartet cover band.
Which explains why Schrodinger immediately went to the nearby Wal-Mart and barricaded himself inside.
There are scarier things in WalMart than zombies.
Not to worry. By posting your concern on Craigslist, you have caused the wave function to collapse, and the cat will come back the very next day.
But I thought he was a goner!
He just couldn’t stay away.
That’s neat guys! You should write a song like that!
I have the strangest sense of ‘deja vu’? Like I’ve read these comments before. What day is today? Have I been to the future?
I was wondering if we were have a Groundhog day incident.
:checks:
But I’m wearing my Wednesday panties. Why would underwear lie to me?
If I’m not wearing any panties, what day is it?
(don’t say Fursday, that was SO yesterday)
It’s Hump Day. That would explain any nesting going on elsewhere in the comments.
:buzzes:
What is “a good day”, Alex?
Eureka! Thanks Windy! That explains Taco’s behavior.
If you can actually explain Taco’s behavior I’ll give you a banana.
TM deliberately defies explanation. I think it’s on purpose, too.
Well, if this is a middle school project, there will be a number of potential wave-function states. As each potential builds from the range of cat to anti-cat, it would seem like some the wave fronts would eventually reinforce and create at leas on “standing wave” and one “standing antiwave” state. The resultant flux through those states would probably generate spontaneous tachyons which could explain LL’s deja vu, as a simple ‘drag’ effects along the time axis of Space-Time.
Dear Sparky,
We thank you for your interest, but at this time we are unable to showcase this idea on “Stupid Pet Tricks”. According to our onsite expert, the hydrocyanic acid would boil under the studio lights and kill our entire studio audience as well as the host. However if you have another stupid pet trick you think would qualify, please resubmit using the form located on the submission link of our website – uranidiot.com. Thank you.
Ima Winner
Production Manager
“Schindler’s Cat’s List” – A movie about a cat whose master sneaks kittens out of a shelter in the dead of night, days before the Final Cat Solution. Liam Neeson’s a wee bit long in the tooth. I could see Robert Pattinson as Schindler. And Charlie Sheen as an evil Nazi shelter worker, manning the ovens.
Oh yes, I will make this movie. It will happen. And I’ll be pooping in high cotten then. Yup.
Hey everybody! Let’s do the funky monkey!
There is no way to say that without it sounding dirty.
I won’t tell you what sometimes goes thru my mind when I hear “taco”. 🙂
How about now?
Aw Yeah!
FM, I can tell the Tacofluence is rubbing off on you, per “cotten”. Welcome, you have been assimilated. 🙂
“Cotten” instead of “cotton” = d’oh!
Being compared to Taco = whuuuuuuuuuuaaaatttt?
For a brief moment, I read that as “Tacoflatulence” and was preparing to evacuate North America.
I’m just gonna say ow, and I really shouldn’t be reading anything funny, but I’d rather be here and in pain then miss a day of snark.
Windy… heel quickly, and get butter.
:fetches Windy pillows and a bowl of field mice:
Windy pillows can’t stop the Tacoflatulence.
I think I’ve got a cork around here somewhere …
Had to read that n times before Uncertainty allowed perception of “in”–the precursors required to cause excretion of cotton (or cotten) boggling the simple human mind.
The cat expressed (*stretch; wash; wash; yawn; ear swivel-eye blink; roll over and tuck head under*) some opinion about the Sled, Rosebud, but was nonplussed about how Joe spelled his name as “cotton.” And then, a squirrel ran down the fence.
Dear Sparky,
The cat is an illusion, you are the one inside the box.
P.S. – I have coated this letter with an unstable radioactive isotope. Enjoy your last ten seconds of life!
Kisses,
GC
Help, I’m worried about the state of the Trolls on the internet!
Trolls have been getting less and less inventive and more regurgitory on the ineternet in the last 15 years. Most don’t even seem to realize this lack of personal creativity in themselves and assume they’re being clever. I’m really worried that trolls may actually be rather stupid now. Please help!
Which do you prefer… pills or electric shock therapy? Guaranteed to fix your worry.
Take the pills; the shock treatments make everything taste like lightbulbs.
Maybe trolls are in fact trolling by acting less creative in order to annoy those who feel trolls are acting less creative.
Or maybe trolls are simply out of ideas because they are stuck inside a slightly radioactive box and their internet connection isn’t that great.
Ms. Sparky: Honey, I haven’t seen the cat all evening. Have you?
Mr. Sparky: Yes, I saw her earlier. I’m sure she’s just having a good wash before bed time.
*the sound of ripping cardboard fills the room, then the sound of a box being dragged*
Cat: Merowooowwwpft hiss *savages Mr. Sparky’s legs*
Some of these litter training methods are getting a little extreme.
Just sayin’.
Can’t get the image to show, but here’s a link.
(Original photo by Kevin Steele, who I know vaguely through other online circles; I remember recognizing this photo when I first saw the LOLcat created from it, and being floored by recognizing the image.)
Dabwah?
Meej! 8) Great photo. Especially like that it says One Cat on the box.
Sad, the state of math education anymore.
The unitary state of cat measurement being clearly
Dear Sparky,
I would like to recommend a solution to your problem. Carefully cut a head-sized hole (your head, not the cat’s) in the side of the box. Look into the hole. If the cat is dead, you will be able to tell. If the cat is alive, you also will be able to tell. In that case, use a very large styptic pencil to stop the bleeding and proceed to step two.
Cut a second, smaller hole (fist-sized) adjacent to the first hole. Insert head into first hole, and your hand wearing this radium numbered watch into the other hole. Inhale briskly.
You’re welcome.
Grampdaddy does NOT get to teach my children science.
He totally didn’t cite his null hypothesis.*
Maybe not yours, but what about his grandchildren? MandaB hasn’t been able to be around for a while, but if she were, we could ask!
If they get their answers right, Grampdaddy, do they get A Major Award?
*In my best Charlton Heston voice*
“They can take my Major Award when they pry it from my prehensile tail.”
Taco, saw no reason to state what I thought was obvious: If the cat is not there, either dead or alive, you’re screwed.
“I did not find him in a box,
did not help to change the locks.
I did not find him here or there,
I did not find him any where.
I did not like it with the gas,
the kitty cat can kiss my a**.”
Kids don’t need none a that science stuff anyway – we can jest teach ’em that peoples, dinosowerses, and Sarah Palin all lived together at the same time.
That’s not true!
Ever’body knows Sarah Palin is a robot, not a dinosour.
Aligator Lewis is on line two for you Gramps.
GC, you’re silly! Sarah isn’t a robot – she’s got a back porch near Russia and the Old North Church.
No no no. Palin is Ross Perot in drag. Get with it people!!!
Totally OT but wanted to share: USA Network is currently filming “White Collar” in front of the building in which I work. For the curious, Matt Bomer/”Neal Caffrey” looks even better in person. Now back to regularly-scheduled snark, after I wipe up my coworker’s drool. (I actually had to tell her to breathe. It was funny.)
Sparky failed Science 101. The lab animal is a RAT, not a CAT. Dr. Seuss co-opted all the cats for his scientific work. No wonder our dim researcher can’t figure out the results.
“Put the cat here in this box,
This one with the complex locks.
Is it living or is it dead?
That’s the question in my head!”
Says the Cat, “I do not like this box,
This one with such complex locks.
You better hope that I am dead,
Or I will smack you upside the head!”
It doesn’t work with rats. You put a rat in a box, their first instinct is to chew a hole in it and escape.
He totally didn’t cite his null hypothesis.
Sorry I didn’t sight it – my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Damn tri-focals!
*subsequent edit* Why is this way down here? Was supposed to be nesting with Taco…..
Why are you nesting with Taco?
Spring fever does odd things to people.
*flips though medical tomes*
Nope, do not find a febrility associated with elastomeric energy storage devices.
But, it’s also only a fortnight to the Solstice, and was over 95º outside today–not vernal climes at all . . .
I don’t think you want to be nesting with Taco. Things could get a little…spicy.
Get a tortilla us two!
Soft or crispy?
How about crispy but microwaved until soft?
Heh heh.
Crispy.
Heh heh.
Microwaved.
Heh heh. Crispy but.
*sigh* This is what I get for sleeping in on my day off. I can’t find anything snarkworthy to add to the list. *slinks into the darkness to lurk for the day*
Come back! You can follow me and Taco around as we point out all the vaguely dirty things in the posts today!
*drags Sister by the wing*
Come on, Sis!!
funky monkey — I’m afraid it will be just you and Sis today. Taco is busy nesting with Grampdaddy, or something.
FM — does this one count?
“Quantum Panic”
“It’s just an experiment,” he was told. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”
Just fine, Broose thought. I’m in a box with a vial of cyanide that will break if the device attached to it detects a particle of radiation. How in the name of Oliver Hardy’s back fat can that possibly be safe? Well, it wasn’t, of course. It was potentially deadly, and became even more so with each passing second, for there were all sorts of sources of radioactive decay floating loose in the world.
Though perhaps he could disable the mechanism, or at lesat prevent it from smashing the vial. That could work. Broose rummaged around in his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and turned it on to shed a bit of light, then began to swing it around to get a look at his environment. Being that he was in a box, it came as a rude shock to him then that the first thing he saw was his own face. He dropped his phone in the moment of surprise, so he bent down, picked it up, and shined it back in the direction he had last seen himself. Sure enough, there he was, staring back at himself.
“What the hell?” Broose — the real Broose — said.
Impostor Broose appeared to be equally shocked. “Dude. You’re … you’re me.”
“No,” Broose corrected. “You’re me.”
“I don’t think so,” Impostor Broose said. “Wait, look, it doesn’t matter who’s who. The more important question is, why the hell are there two of us?”
Why, indeed? Of all of the things that had happened in his life that he could classify as bizarre, this was far and away the most extreme example. Worse, in its own way, than that time he sat down and watched all of Shaye Saint John’s videos on YouTube, and he was pretty sure those left him with some permanent mental scarring — but at least he knew those weren’t real. This was. At least, he was pretty sure he was, as he certainly didn’t remember taking any drugs recently.
“That’s what I’d like to know, too.”
Real Broose swung his cell phone around and confronted himself. Again. There was a third clone standing there, bewildered.
“Me, too,” said yet another who, after shining the phone on him, appeared to be urinating in a corner.
“Hey, could you lot keep it down?” said still another — this one was in another corner holding on for dear life to a vial attached to a device. “I’m trying to keep this damn thing from breaking!”
“It already has, you idiot,” a sixth piped up, this one from the floor; he appeared to be very sick.
“Don’t you call me an idiot, idiot!” the one holding the vial retorted. “If it was broken, why would I be holding it? Huh?”
But the sixth didn’t answer because he was dead.
“See that?” Another answered. “Now he’s dead, are you happy?”
“Oh, I don’t feel so good,” yet another said.
“I think I just stepped in vomit.”
“Excuse me!”
“Dude, did you just feel me up? That’s weird, man.”
“What’s that smell?”
“I was told it would be fine.”
“Hey, I’m trying to pee, here!”
“I think I lost my keys.”
“I knew I should have slept in.”
“I need a shave.”
“I’m missing The View for this.”
“Dude, seriously, stop touching my ass!”
“They’d better provide lunch after this.”
“SHUT! UP!” Real Broose screamed at the top of his lungs, and the entire box went silent. Real Broose shone his phone straight ahead as he pivoted slowly around on one foot. He was everywhere. The entire box was filled — absolutely packed — with … with him. He pushed his way through the crowd of himself. Some of him were milling about, perfectly fine. Some were sick. Some were dying. Some were already dead. Some were sitting on the floor, others stood. One was looking around with his cell phone, just like he was. A few were quietly sobbing to themselves. A few others were visibly agitated. Some panicked. Some were kicking and punching at the walls of the box. One appeared to have gone insane and was tugging repeatedly on his ear as he muttered to himself about “them” and a “secret stash of aardvarks.”
But they were all him, all in various stages of … well, everything. Sanity, anger, frustration, fear, boredom, sickness, death. Bladder control. All him. An infinite number of Brooses. But were they all him as he existed now — exact clones all reacting differently to the situation, those that weren’t dead anyway? Or were they alternate versions of him as he could have turned out had circumstances been different — versions of him from alternate universes? It was kind of disturbing to contemplate either way, and far too much for him to process right now in any event.
Perhaps, though, his answer lay in the device with the cyanide. As he looked at it, it was both broken and intact, all at once. There was the whole, unbroken vial attached to the device, the cyanide still contained within, while at the same time the vial was broken with glass shards on the ground and a thin, poisonous miasma hanging in the air. They both existed simultaneously, impossibly juxtaposed upon each other. But then he was sharing a box with myriad clones of himself, so apparently, impossible was a concept that had to be checked at the door.
A loud noise came from behind him, followed by a bright light. “You can leave, now. The experiment is over.”
Real Broose swung around and squinted, his eyes trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. There was no one blocking his path to the entrance; his clones were gone, just like that. He turned back around to the device; it existed only in one state, now: Unbroken. Broose didn’t know what to think. Certainly he was glad that he didn’t die. But what about all his clones? What about the weird quantum state everything and everyone was in, including himself? Broose’s brain just crawled into a fetal position in a corner of his cranium when he tried to contemplate it. Instead, he turned back to the light and walked out of the box.
Once his eyes adjusted, he walked out of the observation room where he was initially told to go, then made his way down the hall, up some stairs, and through a door on his left, where he was also instructed to go when the experiment was finished. There was nobody there.
“Hello?” Broose called.
A high-backed swivel chair at the other end of the room where the floor-to-ceiling observation windows were and turned to face him. There was a cat in it.
“Ah, yes, hello,” the cat said. “You’ll find your pay packet on the desk over there. We thank you for your participation.”
Broose wondered if he was still in the box.
Note: Seriously, Shaye Saint John is beyond bizarre. Don’t watch his/her/its videos if you value whatever sanity you have left.
MF — thanks, I’ve been missing story time.
Me, too. I’ve been a little run down lately so the words, they’ve been spending too much time taking naps.
Need moar vacation. One month, thankfully, and nothing specific planned for it.
How do you know about the aardvarks!?!
:adds extra layer of tin foil to bunker walls:
(also;
Unless Broose is a vampire you might want to change that.)
You can’t hide the aardvarks from me. Aardvarks belong to the people! They will be freed!
Oh, and D’OH! missed that on my half-assed proofing pass. Fixed on the blog. We’ll just pretend it’s not there in my above post. I’m good at pretending my errors don’t exist. Just ask any of my past girlfriends.
… Broose, still confused and in a daze, removed a bananananana from his pocket, and unthinkingly, began to peel it. This set off the radiation detectors at the TSA check point, and seeing a terrorist brandishing fruit, set the tigers upon him.
[OT]
I was just talking to one of our clients whose customer wanted to buy something from him that he didn’t have in stock. His customer is all “hung go” to buy it, apparently.
And here we are foolishly accepting only money for goods.
[/OT]
I love it when customers are “bell hent” to be “hung go”. Enthusiasm is such a good attitude to have.
I’m all for enthusiasm, but when it starts to show in places it shouldn’t without at least a first date, I start reaching for the pepper spray.
Take me to the ocean and give me a salt spray any day!
8)
Heh heh.
“hung”
Heh.
Hmm, I’ve been asking the translator, in our anagram sort of way, and one version of hung go (魂归 个哦) reads as A Soul Well, which makes me wonder how long it’s been since I read any Jack L Chalker.
It’s too hot today for snark. Also, this particular Sparky irritates me because all I can think is, if you were so damn worried about the cat, why did you DO this in the first place?
That said…since I showed up today before 11 pm I felt it necessary to make my presence known.
Hi, Bridgete! It is kind of hot for snark. When it is warm, does Severus insist on lying close to you anyway? Mine does. “Dude, stop touching me, it’s hot and you have fur” is uttered on occasion.
I’ve often wondered if the perception of “hot cat” is reversed and we are perceived as “cool” to the touch.
I think a cat’s average temperature is around 102F, we probably do feel slightly cool to them.
I keep having to move Fearless off of me, she can’t seem to understand why I don’t want to cuddle with what is basically a wireless heating pad covered in fluff.
Severus does occasionally want the snuggles in hot weather, but he usually just does the “oh god it’s so hot…” long stretch on the floor.
Perhaps a cool refreshing swim is in order. I don’t know where you are, but just keep in mind that If you jump off a bridge in Paris, you are in Seine.
I wish I was in Paris right now. I miss Paris. Le sigh…
There is a pool at my apartment complex, but alas, I didn’t have time earlier and now it’s locked up because they only let us use it from 10-8.
I imagine that one day when Invisikitty becomes President, he will tell us:
“I never inhaled”.
>.>
<.<
I just got off the phone with the laboratory at the local dairy where I applied for ein job and interviewed last Friday.
Boss Lady said she cannot official tell me I have the job. But I am the only person they're looking at right now. And the only one they've put through background check paperwork on. She stressed a number of times that she could not 'officially' say I had it.
…So basically… I got it!
<(^.^<) ^(^.^)^ v(^.^)v (>^.^)>
Everybody Kirby Dance!
WHOOOO!!!!
Way to go, Sis!
*passes flask*
Congratulations SL! May I try?
(>’-‘)> <('-'<) ^('-')^ v('-')v <('-'’-‘)> ^(^-^)^ <("”)> (^’.’^) (>”)> (>”)> <("<) (>”)>
Whoa – got a little dizzy there………
*rubs Sis’s head for luck* Congratulations! Your prize is –*checks pockets* some fresh millet, half a roll of Smarties, and a bird toy made out of leather. Plus all the Internets you can eat.
Awesome, congratulations, Sis.
If it’s Schroedinger’s cat, it might not even be THERE.
Hey, ghostie, you can put down the helmet. Punchity Punch Punch. 8) That didn’t hurt, did it?
G’Night, Vienna!
According to my cat quantum math, that cat is BOTH 50% alive and 50% dead, which means you can post ads to craigslist selling two cats: a half alive cat, a half dead cat, and a pure white cat with spots.
You need to make a tag for “quantum mechanics,” considering all the extradimensional chest drawers and other quantum fluctuations you find.