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The theory of Fascist Metabolism
Metabolic Fascism
=================
(or Amanda, We're Outta Chock Full O' Nuts Again.)
by Basil Hosmer
Submitted by Dave Boyes
Every programmer has some experience with bodily abuse. Sooner or
later, all of us do things to ourselves we wouldn't admit to Mom. Most
of the time we say we're provoked by circumstances: whether it's the
representative from your client's company -- a not pleasant man who
looks a lot like Herman Munster, breathing heavily on your neck -- or
some towering, unstoppable endorphin rush that threatens to rip your
medulla out of its socket if you don't code up that monstro algorithm
RIGHT NOW and forget about your wedding. We generally attribute our
protracted binges to some external force.
This attitude bespeaks a hideous wrong-headedness among programmers. We
seem to get some masochistic pleasure out of responding to pressure by
sitting in front of our machines until our fingernails are too long to
type. Our eyes get varicose veins. We run fingers through our hair
until we get split ends. We drool. Why?
Because, the deluded among us would answer, we have to. Some specter is
chaining us to our chairs, making strangers of our families, removing us
from the throb of humanity. It's not a pretty job, we sigh nobly, but
someone has to do it. This is, as my sister used to say, pompous fudge-
cakes. We do it because we like it.
In view of this, I submit a philosophy of life which has served me well
for the past couple of years. I call it Metabolic Fascism.
There are several basic tenets to this philosophy, but one provides the
foundation for the rest: You Are At War With Your Body.
Picture a table. A lobbyist for your brain sits on one side, a lobbyist
for your body on the other. They are pushing their respective interests
as you go through your life. In a democratic regime, one might overhear
something like this during a normal day:
BODY: Nothing like a good, hearty breakfast to kick-start the day.
BRAIN: Yeah...I feel some serious creativity coming on. It's gonna be a
banner day for original thought. Can we arrange a little rush
from a relevant gland to start things off?
BODY: Why, sure. (Drains a mug of java...) There we go.
BRAIN: Thanks.
(Some eight hours later.)
BODY: Okay, it's about time to wind things down.
BRAIN: But...
BODY: C'mon, it'll be better in the morning if we quit now.
BRAIN: Aw, okay.
(After some interval, sleep, then repeat cycle.)
Now, this has its obvious advantages. Brain and body maintain a working
camaraderie, the cycle of ups and downs is never too extreme or debili-
tating, and the productivity of the two working in tandem is fairly
consistent and predictable.
On the other hand, come the day when Herman Munster is breathing down
your neck, you might HAVE to trash that comfy little system for some-
thing a little more, well, authoritarian. My solution is simple:
metabolic fascism. Not when you have to crank it out, but ALL the time.
To wit:
BODY: Not coffee AGAIN.
BRAIN: You don't want it, throw it up. But don't bother me. Have some
dessert.
BODY: Lucky Strikes a la carte. Delectable. My lungs look like Fire-
stones.
BRAIN: Listen. I'm on the verge of a universe-tilting breakthrough. I
don't need your sniveling.
BODY: Are we gonna get some sleep this week?
BRAIN: Yeah, yeah.
(Some 14 hours later.)
BODY: Look, man, I'm gonna die here. I wanna go to bed.
BRAIN: SILENCE!
(Rains vicious blows upon the Body Lobbyist until he sinks beneath the
table, a simpering lump of protoplasm.)
Philistine.
(Some 10 hours later, the Body Lobbyist has risen from beneath the
table, wearing full body armor and a catcher's mask.)
BODY: Sleep. Now.
(The Brain lobbyist produces a dreadnought Louisville Slugger, festooned
with nails, and clubs the Body Lobbyist senseless.)
BRAIN: Where was I?
(Some eight hours later, the Body Lobbyist rises and leaves the room.
The Brain Lobbyist, deep in some amphetamine-induced trance, fails to
notice. Several minutes later the Body Lobbyist re-enters, carrying a
bazooka. He liberally distributes the Brain Lobbyist about the room.)
BODY: Sleep. Now.
(Perhaps 20 hours later, another Brain Lobbyist enters the room. Repeat
cycle.)
There are tradeoffs to this methodology, sure. But the advantages are
overwhelming.
First, it's more honest. After all, the first time a deadline or a good
idea rolls around, you're gonna shaft your body anyway, right? Why not
accustom yourself to those inevitable caffeine fests BEFORE they descend
on your unsuspecting, pampered physiognomy?
Second, there is no better way to accumulate a comprehensive, detailed
knowledge of one's body than by abusing it regularly. Whereas most
humans can only recognize vague, ambiguous bodily states and apply
almost meaningless words like "good," "bad," "tired" and "rested" to the
way they feel, a metabolic fascist becomes sensitive to the most subtle
changes in his system. He learns to check his pulse by noting the fre-
quency of the shaking in his hands. He learns to check his blood
pressure by gauging the accuracy with which he hits the reboot switch.
To a metabolic fascist, the body is a finely-tuned machine operating
somewhere past the ragged edge. One pays much more attention to an
engine about to explode than to one that is idling, and a metabolic fas-
cist knows his body to adegree of detail that, among other humans, only
long-distance runners and new mothers achieve.
(Not to mention the fact that this mode of living produces a certain
manic look about the eyes that is useful for everything from terrifying
muggers to staring down that fossilized waitress who never, EVER, takes
back a cheeseburger because it's too well-done.)
The peripheral benefits are legion. When was the last time you really
wondered what day it was? A genuine scratch-your-head-and-call-up-
Sidekick kind of puzzlement? When was the last time you were truly
surprised that the sun decided to rise? When was the last time you
stared, entranced, as the sort routine you just wrote turned into little
green soldiers that danced across your screen? To the metabolic fascist,
life once more becomes that fascinating, unpredictable thing most humans
never see after they graduate from diapers.
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