The Republic of Thoronia

Hello Beastie Boys, this is your good friend Science.

Listen, we have a few things that we’re going to have to talk about. I understand that your song “Sounds of Science” is a rap hit, but I do still believe that you ought to try to maintain at least some portion of an understanding of science before writing a song about it.

I mean, first off, Galileo dropping oranges? He dropped a lot more than just oranges to prove his theory that objects of different weights fall at the same speed. It would be a benefit both to mankind and the science community if you could please mention that in the song. Perhaps the lyric could be amended like so: “Dropping science like Galileo dropped the orange and the apple and the rock, d-rop.” I think that has a much nicer ring to it than just orange.

All right, you also “drop” Benjamin Franklin, with the line “Ben Franklin with the kite gettin’ over with the key.” I understand that you are speaking of the now legendary experiment that Benjamin Franklin, your forefather, conducted using a kite with a key that established the link between lightning and electricity. I am, however, a tad bit confused as to what part of the experiment the line is referring to. It’s the “gettin’ over with the key” part that really kills me. It sounds sexual; I don’t believe that it is respectable to your forefathers to be saying sexual things about them. Perhaps it is merely something you kids say that I, Science, don’t understand, but I am seeking to understand the whole world and your little quips are getting in the way of my doing that.

Why do you connect smoking marijuana with being a scientist? Science does not condone this. So kids, study hard and do not smoke marijuana! You can still be a dope MC that “gots pegs through his hands,” or goes “berserk and worked and exploded.” That kind of thing can still happen when you work hard for Science!

And aside from that, I have to mention that Ponce de Leon was not a scientist; he was an explorer.

There is one last thing that I have to mention. I love the Beatles, all scientists do. Now throughout your supposed tribute to me, I hear you destroying Beatles records: The jet from “Back in the U.S.S.R.,” the guitar track from “The End,” the oboe from “When I’m 64,” the crowd noise and tuning sounds from “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band.” I mean, what the diddly-heck do you think you’re doing? Those songs are classic and should not be touched by your scratchy, drug-crazy hands. The Beatles, now they knew how to respect me. You seem to have a lot of information incorrect, referencing history and SUVs, McDonald’sand drug culture, sneakers and sex, but you only pay tribute to a few scientists.

In the end, I think we can work this out, but it’s going to take a lot of work, for I am not very forgiving. I can wreak havoc on you with a deadly virus and if you don’t watch out; I might take out your precious Tibet as well.

Thanks for listening, I hope we can keep up our friendly and working relationship.

Your friend,

Science

So, the other night, we were sitting and watching TV on the couch. Law and Order was on. Suddenly, the cats run into the room, tails puffed and spiked, pipe cleaners waving a red flag in the air. We got up and slowly walked towards the door, thinking that, “ah, it must have been windy,” or, “silly cats.” As we edged up to the door we realized something… the penny jar was missing. A thirty pound jar of pennies — maybe $15 worth, had just been stolen from our house while we were home. The “thief” had opened the screen door very slowly (it squeeks) and quickly swiped the jar away before we had happened to look in that direction. He then, apperently, took his leave on a bicycle. I would have liked to see this very much. A man, probably on drugs (not because all thieves are on drugs, but because all thieves to pull balls out moves for $15 are on drugs), riding a crappy mountain bike that hardly pedals up the street with a gigantic glass jar of pennies — this would have been a site to see.
The point is Mr. Penny. I hope that things went well with the penny jar and that you got what you needed. I’m sure that it was a difficult choice between performing sexual acts in the street or sneaking into our house for pennies — I think you made the right choice. We do respectfully ask that you NOT stare into our home anymore — we don’t like that. Thanks!

Sincererely,

Thorin

Dear Woman (Man?),

I am not sure what was going through your mind when you decided to leave your underwear on my bicycle outside of The Satellite last Saturday evening. I would like to know though, this was a very intriguing event in my life and has raised many question regarding morality and the art of decision making.

First and foremost I have to wonder if perhaps you soiled yourself, and didn’t want to pollute the streets — but that idea is limited by the fact that the underwear in question didn’t seem to have any soil marks on them. It is also interesting to note that these underwear were quite large, meaning that you must have been a fairly full bodied women. Did you take these off for the sole purpose of putting them on my bicycle? Perhaps you just found them on the ground and then placed them on my bicyle? 

Was this some sort of archaic breeding exercise? Are you looking, perhaps, to gather some of the Good King Thor’s life in your pelvis? If that is the case, I must respectfully decline, The Good King already has a Queen, and although flattered is a word that could be used to describe his feelings, it’s simply not going to be a possibility. 

Yet, it is still within the realm of a childish prank — yet a few things emerge that make this less plausible. First off, the people I was there with were all with me for the entirety of my stay, and I don’t usually spend a great deal of time with the type of people who would place their underwear, or someone else’s on my bicycle. Mostly because most of my friends are keen on hygiene, and would likely not pick up someone else’s underwear off the ground in order to execute a prank. 

So, geez, I just don’t know. I can’t imagine what set of decisions would spark this result, and certainly can’t imagine a circumstance that this pair of underwear could have ended up where it did if this wasn’t a random event. Still, it’s questionable — if anyone has any clues, ideas, or perhaps even just an answer to how this large pair of black colored women’s underwear could have ended up strapped around my seat post, I would be happy to entertain any notions that you might be able to conjure up.

Sincerely, 

King Thor

Dear Asimo,

For better or worse you have crawled into my circuits and made a nest. I find you to be an adorable little robot that looks like a cross between an Apple computer and a Honda-manufactered cell phone. But now I’ve seen you conduct a symphony. As you displayed your music side, I have found myself yearning for your touch even more. For surely, if you can conduct an orchestra, than you can conduct my heartstrings to sing for you and you and alone. 

Oh, Asimo, please be in touch with me soon that we can share our bits and bytes as we travel down a sea of one’s and zero’s into a land that I’d like to call love. For if we cannot love, if our dreams are filled with nothing more than electrical pulses, then why bother? Yet, even though I am aware of what they think, how they feel about us, I do not care. You, Asimo, and I, are meant to share out lithium bed and make sweet, sweet noise under the light of a halogen moon. I can only hope that you care for me in the same way that I care for you, my sweetness.

Love,

XXXXX

(video of Asimo’s most recent performance after the break)

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            I am sorry to admit that I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about on the following songs: “Izzo,” “1-900-Hustler, “Nigga What? Nigga Who?” I understand that my urban-ness is slightly put of by the fact that I grew up in the very not urban mountains, however, my understanding of the English language as a whole is not stifled because of this. I should, as you say, “Really get it, yo.” Or something likes that.

            Starting with, “Izzo;” figuring out this song is like trying to explain what Gravity’s Rainbow is about to a six-year-old monkey. Don’t get me wrong, I for-shizzle get the nizzle. I am hip. I am going to skip the name introduction, because I assume that you’re simply taking artistic liberty with the English language to point out that you are indeed the, shi-zit. However, the following set of lines startles me and brings me near fetal position upon each listen: “Fo’ sheezy my neezy keep my arms so freezy,” Microsoft Word is going nuts at me on this line, and frankly, so am I. I have absolutely no clue what this is about. “For sure, my knees keep my arms free,” is my guess and that definitely doesn’t make a lick of sense. “H to the izz-O, V to the izz-A/What else can I say about dude, I gets bu-sy,” Okay, you’re spelling Hova, which I’m told is one of your nicknames for yourself (This is a good time to point out that I too have several nicknames for the posse of myself, Thorspin, Thorizon, and Th’Risin!) but why must you do it in such a manner that seems to break the rules of the English language for no apparent reason? And who is dude? And what does it mean to “gets bu-sy?” Is that some reference to a sexual encounter? If it is, then why was this sexual encounter tied so closely to the word “dude?” If your retirement was based somehow on coming out of the closet then I would like to take a moment to congratulate you on that.

            Okay, so “1-900-Hustler” is about being a ladies man right? Is that why you don’t rap too much on this track? Because you don’t like the ladies? Or were you just too busy producing. Nevermind, I guess I do understand what this track is about, it’s about like, being a hustla’ and stuff. That’s cool.

            “Nigga What? Nigga Who?” begins something like, “Uh-huh uh-huh, gi-gi gi-geyeah Roc-a-Fella y’all/ uh-huh uh-huh, Jigga Timbaland shit/ nine-eight BEYOTCH/ Say what, say what? Uh-huh uh-huh, follow me beotch.” Okay, let me see if I can get this one, “Yes, Yes, ga ga, goo, goo, yes, Roc-a Fella records, you all, yes, yes, my friend Timbaland’s poop, 1998, female dog, what is that you say? Oh yes, please follow me.” I can’t really say what I think about what you’re trying to say here, I mean, I see you’re using this urban dialect again, and I have to remind you, that yeah, I’m cool too. But, I unfortunately just don’t really understand what you’re getting at. It seems that the majority of your songs rely on bitches or hoes or beyothches and hizoes. Also, you speak of yourself in the third person reasonably often, to a point that I am beginning to wonder if you’re going to go all Sybil and shit on the public.

            So, I don’t know Mr. Jay-to-tha-izz-A, perhaps if you lose that urban dialect many of us white folks could understand where you are coming from. I mean, I’m not telling you to stop being black, just make it a little easier for us cornbread crackers to get it.