New Year's Solution

public class Engine { private URL _theurl;
public URLConnection _theconnection;
private String _rootURL; public BufferedReader _in; public Engine(String root) {
_rootURL = root;} public String showRoot() { return _rootURL;}
public void setUrl(String urlstring) throws MalformedURLException, IOException {
_theurl = new URL("http", [pattern host], 80, urlstring);
_theconnection = _theurl.openConnection();
_in = new BufferedReader(new InputStreamReader(_theconnection.getInputStream()));}
public static void main(String args[]) throws MalformedURLException, IOException {
String trialinput = new String();
String trialoutput = new String();
ArrayList[parameterization] goodones = new ArrayList[parameterization]();
FileWriter fw = new FileWriter(new File("ohfives.txt"));
BufferedWriter bw = new BufferedWriter(fw);
NumberFormat nf = NumberFormat.getInstance();
nf.setMinimumIntegerDigits(5);
nf.setGroupingUsed(false);
Engine sweep = new Engine([website pattern string]);
long starttime = System.currentTimeMillis();
for (int i=0; i<100000; i++) {
trialinput = sweep.showRoot().replaceAll("pattern", nf.format(i));
sweep.setUrl(trialinput);
trialoutput = sweep._theconnection.getContentType();
if (trialoutput.equalsIgnoreCase("video/mpeg")) {
goodones.add(i); } }
long endtime = System.currentTimeMillis();
Iterator[parameterization] it = goodones.iterator();
int curs = 0; while (it.hasNext()) {
String temp = nf.format(it.next());
bw.write(temp); System.out.print(temp + "\t");
if (++curs % 25 == 0) {
System.out.println(); } bw.newLine(); } bw.flush();
System.out.println("\nScan complete ("+goodones.size()+") in " + ((endtime - starttime)/1000) + " seconds."); }}

Loominous

"Well I just wish you wouldn't test me, that's all."
Gaaaahd, I thought. Well I mean I thought that after the fact.
"I'm not testing you, I didn't intend it to be a test."
As soon as someone confronts you, go into defensive clarification mode. That's how the intellectual never loses an argument.
"Hand me my brush." I picked up her brush and handed it to her.
"What? Are you mad at me n--?"
"No."
See there it is. She's got the upper hand. She cut me off and cut me off with a response to my question, proving not only that my presumption is wrong, but that she knew the rest of the question.
"I just don't see why you couldn't do it in the first place like you always do?"
"Liste--"
Again.
"I mean if you're not happy doing it you should have just been honest with me instead of not doing it and testing me. I'm not averse to doing it I'm just used to doing it and I'm the kind of person who falls into routines for mundane tasks. I need to have my mundane tasks in proper order so I don't waste mental preparedness on such trivial things."
So basically, I just should have done it. From here there's nowhere to take it except maybe to escalate it to a major altercation. Well, I'm feeling a bit whimsical today. I'm a little loose. I'm kind of bored with the way things are going, why not mix it up?

"I'm tired of your bullshit, you never would've done it because you don't even know how. I wasn't testing you. I didn't think of the 'you' component of it when I didn't do it, I just didn't do it, because I didn't feel like doing it at the time."
"What is that supposed to mean I never would've done it? I would have done it if you asked me to, that's how people who don't usually do things assume responsibility for doing something they usually don't do. So if you would've asked me, I'm sure I would've been fine with doing it. And what is that supposed to mean I don't even know how, I am sick of the chip on your shoulder about the mundane things you can do that I can't."
I swear a little bit of everyone's arguing prowess derives from the snippets of Ricki Lake and Jerry Springer they've seen through the years. Yeah, our personalities are inexpensive cocktails - until the MPAA hires better lawyers.
"I'm not saying that you can't do it." A little of her own medicine! But not really because I didn't craft that strategy on the fly. It was just me lowering my standards and committing the intellectual crime I had just identified on her end. "All I'm saying," I mean, it's pretty clear that it's not all I'm saying, but this and other mini-prefaces are futile attempts to patronize the adversary into subconsciously thinking your argument is straightforward, "is that not everything I do is done with you in mind."
"Well, that's very clear to me."

Let's talk about open doors. Let's talk about opening doors. Then, we'll talk about closing them, and after that: the reluctant ajaredness of doors. The sometimes persistent nature of door-ajaricity. Or, the constitutional right of my door to have hinges on the same side as your dominant hand or there will be hell to pay in the form of you being thrown in an airtight room with a black bag over your head - door closed.

So there I sat, in a cushiony room that I am ashamed to say immediately reminded me of an old boy band video from the 90s. I believe it was the N*Sync (I never know where to put the asterisk! roflmao!) music artist, perhaps for one of their pop hits, perhaps, "I Drive Myself Crazy." Anyway, whiiish, I got all sentimental and laaamerz.

That's when you fall. Sitting there in the padded room assessing the current circumstance. I look up and there is a mirror and I am not who I think I am. I am Jenny McCarthy sitting on Santa's lap. The one and only...well-dressed missionary. I start laughing and dancing and laughing and dancing all around the padded room. When I look up again I'm Carmen Electra and I'm 80% nude and the floor in the mirror is the nighttime sky through dusty dirty grimey slimey city blinds, and in the full moon between the blinds I see myself again. I'm Lieutenant General James Longstreet, who probably never saw anyone like Carmen Electra, who I used to be before I looked up and realized I was the commander of the First Corps on a night like no other. I looked down at myself and indeed, I had the green soldier uniform on. It was tattered because if it wasn't then I'd have known something was up. I'm ready to serve! I can serve! The sanitation route? How come?

I fastened my canteen to my bayonet (probably the most useless independent clause I've ever constructed) and flipped open my Sony Vaio (clearly the rebels wouldn't have Macs). "Motherfucker," I snapped, "I'm going to need a cable resurgence, I'm way too heavy in Sterling."
"Longstreet! God damn it son, what did I tell you about checking your stocks before gameday!"
"No, sir, I wasn't - I was reviewing the battle plan for tomorrow sir."
This wasn't good, my stomach sunk. I knew that if he asked for proof I wouldn't even have the map in my history trail. If only there were some kind of configurable audit simulator. Ahhh he's gonna ask to see it, fuck I am fucked. I felt a bug on my shoe.
"Let's see what you think about Little Roundtop," he inched closer and I knew I was caught. Should I go into my apology now or should I wait on a miracle. I opened the Vaio and to my surprise, a damned Yankee pop-up ad had appeared on the screen and obstructed the portfolio view. Coast clear I figured.
"God damn it Longstreet, why doesn't this corps have better servers?"
He was so straightforward. I am a barbarian, he is a superpower. We were barbarians, the North were a civilized people. As a continent, we were civilized, and those in the tropical climates are barbarians.
"Bahhh, let's add seven months and make every month only have 19 days. Then, at the end, we'll add however many days short of the lunar calendar we are."

"Born in the U.S.A." is a c-r-i-t-i-q-u-e, and anything that's negative about it as a song is negative because it's supposed to be. Get it?

Burnt by a Tuft of Fire

Immediately after [human catastrophe], the [human] villains were identified. They received the usual treatment of a villain: lots of press, some roundtable discussions, some new hardcovers. "Inside the mind of [villain]" by [human expert]. If their CV is lengthy, we'll pay the intern a bit more to buff up all the graphics. Maybe we'll do a special edition. Maybe [partisan pundit] will weigh in. Maybe [unrelated subject's radio talk show host] comments, and maybe [I] will shake [my] head. [Local news co-anchor, male] shakes head at [local news co-anchor, female]: "What a shame." [Homemaker] [temporarily completes homemaker task], forming an expert knowledge base of what they heard, which comes in handy in the [social realm]. [Web aggregator] reports [10^(# references to barbarian nation-state [from America's perspective] or terrorism [perceived/actual/both]) multiplied by top story average] stories are being aggregated for [human catastrophe] topic.

I remember questioning the existence of my "permanent record." After The Net, I decided that more energy should be expended questioning the validity of my permanent record. My first fear was of bumblebees, my second, cicadas; third, wasps; fourth, roaches; fifth, tornados; 6th, genital papercuts; 7th, caterpillars, 8th, lightning, and my ninth fear was tarnishing my permanent record. That probably had more to do with my discovering of the difference between "permanent" and "temporary." When the mind stores a pristine copy of the word "permanent (and the semantics thereof)," after it has done the same for the concept of death, the word "permanent" is an air-conditioned hut on a desert island.

But more than any of this is the desire to tempt the fates with relatively villainous deeds, and so to light a flame and hope for a clear calm day. Turbulence begets tufts of fire that swirl upwards and tempt the body-canister into exploding, ending it all. The skeins of white organic matter swirl and become whiter. Nothing about an egg is black or blue.

Black, White, & Red

"Why did you put a lemming in your wedding?" "I've known him forever and he's been good to me." "It's still a little weird, with the guy from the store carrying him around in a cage and all." "I know, I wish we could've given him something formal to wear." "Yeah."

One of my cousins sat in the fourth pew on my family's side. He wore thick-framed, black eyeglasses that had almost a half-inch of solid frame on either side. As my anxious fiancé appeared in the doorway at the opposite end of the church, I stared intently at my cousin. He had this weird look on his face. The procession moved forward, and Ingmar's light blue denim shirt clashed with everything. A lot of people stopped looking at the bride and looked at him and the lemming who, incidentally, was adorned with a black satin ribbon around his torso with a corsage pinned at the top.

My cousin was reading an article that befit his oenophilic tastes on the transparent overlay that his iGlasses® afforded him. Using the chip installed in his wrist, he could control the degree of transparency (this had no effect on the actual color of the lenses on his glasses) with simple finger motions at the inside-end of his forearm. The gadget and the implant set him back quite significantly in the financial sense, but in human terms, he was easily the most advanced person in the building, if not the whole county. I had no idea that he even had this gadget, so I just thought he was spacing out.

I was supposed to say something to my fiancé but before I did so I motioned to Ingmar to let the lemming out of his cage so he could lineup next to the other members of the bridal party and, of course, to get Ingmar's atrocious shirt out of the picture. When he opened the door to the lemming cage, the little fellow scurried down the aisle and right out the front doors of the church. My cousin had identified the lemming and placed a Google GPS Tracker® on the little fellow. He inhaled, raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth and pointed towards the back of the church but decided not to say anything.

Others fainted and yelled, Ingmar bolted down the aisle after the lemming—cage door clanking back and forth. I told the minister to continue with the wedding, "He always does that." My fiancé was all flustered and had run her hand through her hair to relieve some pressure. This messed up her hair. My cousin went back to reading a review about a new red. He looked up and faded down the overlay's transparency, noticed that my wife-to-be had tossed her hair a bit, and he quickly faded up his overlay and requested a Yahoo! Replay® of how it had happened. The web service, which had been adapted pretty early on for this medium, informed him that the replay would cost $4.50 for retrieval and $0.30 per second (though he could proof the frames at 10 second intervals to get an idea). He wanted only 8 seconds so the site billed the charge to his personal account.

My cousin didn't carry a wallet because all of his identification, finances, and retail rewards cards were installed in the metacarpal chip implanted in his wrist. When he rode the subway, turnstiles clicked open for him as he approached because of the Yellowsock® data exchanged between him and the transit station. When he went to the store, they didn't ask him if he had a rewards card because the monitor had already detected this information. It was great.

The replay was great, he coveted my fiancé. I married her. We processed down the aisle and down the stairs of the church. Everyone was lined up like at a wedding. Ingmar was holding the lemming, whose flower-pin had pierced through the stem of a flower on the lawn at the edge of the grass. Lemmings have a tendency to cut corners because they're lazy and spatially perceptive. They also usually run on tundra, not concrete, so the little guy's judgment was all off. What an ironic twist!

On our honeymoon, my wife and I considered buying a pair of iGlasses® but decided to wait until we returned to our home country. In retrospect, I wish we would've bought them then and there.

I usually did everything I could to lead the mischief.