Ta much, dear Edosan!
CAYMAN ISLANDS (The Borowitz Report) - In an uncharacteristically emotional scene for the presumptive GOP nominee, Mitt Romney today paid a surprise visit to his money in the Cayman Islands.
Speaking in a bank vault surrounded by stacks of cash, Mr. Romney praised his money for "the brave work you have done in the never-ending fight for freedom from Federal income tax."
"Thanks to your hard work, losers around the world are envious of me," he added. "For that I salute you."
Stressing that his money's mission in the Caymans was "far from over," he refused to set any timetable for withdrawal.
In a reference to his bid for the Presidency, Mr. Romney told his money, "It would be an honor and a privilege to have my face on you someday."
After plunging into the stacks of cash to touch many of the dollar bills individually, Mr. Romney boarded his private jet to pay a surprise visit to Switzerland.
Received in an e-mail from the Borowitz Report.
Ta much, dear Edosan!
Speaking in a bank vault surrounded by stacks of cash, Mr. Romney praised his money for "the brave work you have done in the never-ending fight for freedom from Federal income tax."
"Thanks to your hard work, losers around the world are envious of me," he added. "For that I salute you."
Stressing that his money's mission in the Caymans was "far from over," he refused to set any timetable for withdrawal.
In a reference to his bid for the Presidency, Mr. Romney told his money, "It would be an honor and a privilege to have my face on you someday."
After plunging into the stacks of cash to touch many of the dollar bills individually, Mr. Romney boarded his private jet to pay a surprise visit to Switzerland.
Received in an e-mail from the Borowitz Report.
Ta much, dear Edosan!
Sorry, no embed code!
A Scandal in Belgravia - Series 2 Episode 1
[In Buckingham Palace, Sherlock is wrapped in a sheet, apparently otherwise naked]
John Watson: Are you wearing any pants?
Sherlock Holmes: ...No.
John Watson: Okay.
[Sherlock and John in Buckingham Palace]
John Watson: What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?
Sherlock Holmes: I don't know.
John Watson: Here to see the Queen?
[Mycroft Holmes walks in]
Sherlock Holmes: Oh, apparently yes.
[They fall about laughing whilst Mycroft disapprovingly stares]
Mycroft Holmes: Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?
John Watson: We solve crimes. I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope.
[Mycroft hands Sherlock, who is still undressed, some clothes]
Mycroft Holmes: We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!
Sherlock Holmes: What for?
[Mycroft pours tea]
Mycroft Holmes: I'll be mother.
Sherlock Holmes: And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell.
[Sherlock is learning about Irene Adler]
Sherlock Holmes: Who is she?
Mycroft Holmes: Irene Adler. Professionally known as ‘The Woman’.
Sherlock Holmes: "Professionally"?
Mycroft Holmes: There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'Dominatrix'.
Sherlock Holmes: Dominatrix?
Mycroft Holmes: Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex.
Sherlock Holmes: Sex doesn't alarm me.
Mycroft Holmes: [smirking] How would you know? [Sherlock just looks at him] She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding to those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.
[In Buckingham Palace, Sherlock is wrapped in a sheet, apparently otherwise naked]
John Watson: Are you wearing any pants?
Sherlock Holmes: ...No.
John Watson: Okay.
[Sherlock and John in Buckingham Palace]
John Watson: What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?
Sherlock Holmes: I don't know.
John Watson: Here to see the Queen?
[Mycroft Holmes walks in]
Sherlock Holmes: Oh, apparently yes.
[They fall about laughing whilst Mycroft disapprovingly stares]
Mycroft Holmes: Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?
John Watson: We solve crimes. I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope.
[Mycroft hands Sherlock, who is still undressed, some clothes]
Mycroft Holmes: We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!
Sherlock Holmes: What for?
[Mycroft pours tea]
Mycroft Holmes: I'll be mother.
Sherlock Holmes: And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell.
[Sherlock is learning about Irene Adler]
Sherlock Holmes: Who is she?
Mycroft Holmes: Irene Adler. Professionally known as ‘The Woman’.
Sherlock Holmes: "Professionally"?
Mycroft Holmes: There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'Dominatrix'.
Sherlock Holmes: Dominatrix?
Mycroft Holmes: Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex.
Sherlock Holmes: Sex doesn't alarm me.
Mycroft Holmes: [smirking] How would you know? [Sherlock just looks at him] She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding to those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.
Xtine66 is a crematorium that helps around the home and sends and receives faxes.
Now that is simply well beyond disturbing.
Now that is simply well beyond disturbing.
- Hello, Ikea help line? I can’t put my bæd together, the optical illusion wasn’t in the box.
- Ah, that happens a lot with our non-euclidian R’lyeh product line. Hold on, I connect your with our dedicated support.
- Ia, Ia ! Cthulhu ftaghn ! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl ftaghn ?
- Damn Swedish.
Ta much, dear Edosan!
When Hector Siliezar visited the ancient Mayan city of Chichen Itza with his wife and kids in 2009, he snapped three iPhone photos of El Castillo, a pyramid that once served as a sacred temple to the Mayan god Kukulkan. A thunderstorm was brewing near the temple, and Siliezar was trying to capture lightning crackling dramatically over the ruins.
In the first two images, dark clouds loom above the pyramid, but nothing is amiss. However, in the third photo, a powerful beam of light appears to shoot up from the pyramid toward the heavens, and a thunderbolt flashes in the background.
Siliezar, who recently shared his photographs with occult investigators, told Earthfiles.com that he and his family didn't see the light beam in person; it appeared only on camera. "It was amazing!" he said. He showed the iPhone photo to his fellow tourists. "No one, not even the tour guide, had ever seen anything like it before." ...
...is it simply the result of an iPhone glitch?
According to Jonathon Hill, a research technician and mission planner at the Mars Space Flight Facility at Arizona State University, which operates many of the cameras used during NASA's Mars missions, it is almost definitely the latter. Hill works with images of the Martian surface taken by rovers and satellites, as well as data from Earth-orbiting NASA instruments, and is fully versed in the wide range of potential image artifacts and equipment errors.
He says the "light beam" in the Mayan temple photo is a classic case of such an artifact — a distortion in an image that arises from the way cameras bounce around incoming light.
It is no mere coincidence, Hill said, that "of the three images, the 'light beam' only occurs in the image with a lightning bolt in the background. The intensity of the lightning flash likely caused the camera's CCD sensor to behave in an unusual way, either causing an entire column of pixels to offset their values or causing an internal reflection (off the) camera lens that was recorded by the sensor." In either case, extra brightness would have been added to the pixels in that column in addition to the light hitting them directly from the scene.
Evidence in favor of this explanation is the fact that the beam, when isolated in Photoshop or other image analysis software, runs perfectly vertical in the image. "That's a little suspicious since it's very unlikely that the gentleman who took this picture would have his handheld iPhone camera positioned exactly parallel to the 'light beam' down to the pixel level," Hill told Life's Little Mysteries.
It's more likely that the "light beam" corresponds to a set of columns of pixels in the camera sensor that are electronically connected to each other, but not to other columns in the sensor, and that this set of connected pixels became oversaturated in the manner described above.
"That being said," Hill said, "it really is an awesome image!"
Ta much, dear MSiegel!
Ta much, MSiegel!
Ta much, dear MSiegel!
The Dictionary Of The Vulgar Tongue: do you know your 'abbess' from your 'elbow shaker'? - Telegraph
It was a runaway success when published in 1811 by soldier Francis Grose, but now the Dictionary Of The Vulgar Tongue can be viewed online. Here is our round up of the best words:
ABBESS: Mistress of a brothel.
BABES IN THE WOOD: Criminals in stocks or pillory.
BLIND CUPID: Backside.
BOB TAIL: Lewd woman. Also an impotent man or a eunuch.
BREAD AND BUTTER FASHION: One upon the other. "John and his maid were caught lying bread and butter fashion."
COLD PIG: Punishment inflicted on "sluggards" who lie too long in bed — pulling off all the bedclothes and throwing cold water on them.
COW-HEARTED: Fearful.
DOCK: Lie with a woman.
DUGS: Woman's breasts.
ELBOW SHAKER: A dice player.
FLASH THE HASH: Vomit.
GLAZIER: Someone who breaks windows to steal goods for sale.
GOSPEL SHOP: Church.
HEMPEN WIDOW: One whose husband was hanged.
HOYDON: Romping girl.
INEXPRESSIBLES: Breeches. ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel!
Ta much, MSiegel!
Ta much, MSiegel!
The Iron Lady star lost her shoe at the Baftas and her glasses at the Golden Globes – and carried both accidents off with dotty good humour. We can't wait to see how she will enliven Oscar night
Ask Meryl Streep to play-act for the camera and the result is pristine professionalism, icy exactitude and a self-possession that veers on the eerie. Ask her to collect an award and you get the polar opposite: a rumble-tumble Feydeau farce. At Sunday night's Baftas, the Iron Lady star bounded on stage with such devil-may-care exuberance that she lost her shoe en route.
"Well, that couldn't have gone worse," Streep chortled, having clearly forgotten her appearance at last month's Golden Globes. On that occasion she rocked up without her spectacles, shouted "Oh shit, my glasses!" and thereby triggered the telecast's seven-second time delay (the broadcaster's equivalent of the red button, or the ejector seat). All of which leaves the pundits wondering what Streep has in store for Oscar night. Perhaps she will overturn a table, or become ankle-cuffed by her underpants in her sprint to the stage. Perhaps she will drop the Oscar on Harvey Weinstein's head. ...
Ask Meryl Streep to play-act for the camera and the result is pristine professionalism, icy exactitude and a self-possession that veers on the eerie. Ask her to collect an award and you get the polar opposite: a rumble-tumble Feydeau farce. At Sunday night's Baftas, the Iron Lady star bounded on stage with such devil-may-care exuberance that she lost her shoe en route.
"Well, that couldn't have gone worse," Streep chortled, having clearly forgotten her appearance at last month's Golden Globes. On that occasion she rocked up without her spectacles, shouted "Oh shit, my glasses!" and thereby triggered the telecast's seven-second time delay (the broadcaster's equivalent of the red button, or the ejector seat). All of which leaves the pundits wondering what Streep has in store for Oscar night. Perhaps she will overturn a table, or become ankle-cuffed by her underpants in her sprint to the stage. Perhaps she will drop the Oscar on Harvey Weinstein's head. ...
Ta much, MSiegel!
Breakdance @ Spike Jones. All Star Revue. 1951-1952
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bAzm9yBfoHM
Hackers from the group Anonymous have broadcast a private conference call between the FBI and Scotland Yard exposing details of an international cybercrime investigation, the FBI has confirmed.
The FBI and Scotland Yard admitted that the security of the call had been breached.
Investigators can be heard discussing their joint inquiry into a cybercrime investigation going through the British courts, and linked to investigations in New York, Baltimore, Los Angeles and Ireland.
It is understood the breach occurred at the US end of the call. As the news broke, Anonymous began taunting the FBI, asking if it was curious about how the group could keep reading the bureau's internal communications.
Investigators can be heard on the broadcast talking about named individuals who have been charged in the UK with hacking into the website of the Serious Organised Crime Agency (Soca).
In one lengthy exchange, the British contingent can be heard discussing a 15-year-old hacker as a "wannabe" and a "pain in the bum". The 15-minute call has been broadcast on the internet, but the names of some of the individuals being sought have been bleeped out by the hackers. ...
The FBI and Scotland Yard admitted that the security of the call had been breached.
Investigators can be heard discussing their joint inquiry into a cybercrime investigation going through the British courts, and linked to investigations in New York, Baltimore, Los Angeles and Ireland.
It is understood the breach occurred at the US end of the call. As the news broke, Anonymous began taunting the FBI, asking if it was curious about how the group could keep reading the bureau's internal communications.
Investigators can be heard on the broadcast talking about named individuals who have been charged in the UK with hacking into the website of the Serious Organised Crime Agency (Soca).
In one lengthy exchange, the British contingent can be heard discussing a 15-year-old hacker as a "wannabe" and a "pain in the bum". The 15-minute call has been broadcast on the internet, but the names of some of the individuals being sought have been bleeped out by the hackers. ...
Miller: John Wayne was a fag.
Everyone: (in unison) The hell he was.
Miller: He was too, you boys. I installed two-way mirrors in his pad in Brentwood. And he come to the door in a dress.
- Repo Man
from a long defunct, much missed site
Slow down a little, genius: I am merely gifted., \o/ I begged for this gif and now I’m all happy ...
Sideways ass kitteh FTW
Ice cream troll
Parkour is for pussies.
scroop
n. the rustle of silk
Ta, Glenn321!
n. the rustle of silk
Ta, Glenn321!
Police say a car reported stolen from an Australian shopping center parking lot has been found more than two weeks later in the closed garage of a nearby home where it had apparently rolled unaided.
Police said in a statement Friday that the owner of the station wagon had reported it stolen from outside a shop in a suburb of Adelaide city on Dec. 18. The car was found parked in the home's garage Wednesday when the residents returned from vacation.
Police concluded that the car's owner had failed to leave its gear in park. The car then rolled across the parking lot, across a street and then down a driveway. It then bumped under the garage door by knocking it off its tracks. The door then closed behind it.
Police said in a statement Friday that the owner of the station wagon had reported it stolen from outside a shop in a suburb of Adelaide city on Dec. 18. The car was found parked in the home's garage Wednesday when the residents returned from vacation.
Police concluded that the car's owner had failed to leave its gear in park. The car then rolled across the parking lot, across a street and then down a driveway. It then bumped under the garage door by knocking it off its tracks. The door then closed behind it.
It is only right that viewers should be protected from the gratuitous use of swearwords. Except that Virgin Media's electronic programme guide began to see offence in words which otherwise would be happily broadcast on breakfast TV – Alfred Hitchcock, for example, became Alfred Hitchc**k, with a similar fate befalling BBC Radio 6 Music's Jarvis C**ker. Charles Dickens became Charles D***ens and Arsenal became A***nal. We can only imagine what happened would have happened to Scunthorpe had they also featured on the broadcaster's EPG over the weekend. A Virgin Media spokesperson said: "Over the weekend a temporarily over-zealous profanity checker took offence at certain programme titles. The altered titles have been swiftly an*lysed and we're fixing any remaining glitches."
........and my crates are deep, Captain.
MSiegel can always be relied upon for provision of high-quality O_o
…A few weeks ago I was flipping through the channels when I caught part of an Ed Sheeran gig on Channel 4. It looked like roughly 50% of the audience was just standing there, pointing little black rectangles in his direction throughout. Play that back and you’d only get a hazy shot of a singing blob. So why bother? It seems especially fruitless since there was a TV crew present, filming the concert in high definition with stereo sound in order to broadcast it later for free. And if it’s not about recording the music, but simply about keeping personal mementos, why watch the screen on your phone while filming it? It’s like you’re not even there, somehow. I can understand wanting to distance yourself slightly during a violent uprising, but during a gig? We’re a curious species, when it comes down to it. …
Li'l sideways ass kitteh FTW
Ta much, dear MSiegel!
Ta much, dear MSiegel!
Tommaso, a four-year-old, one-time stray from Rome, is thought to have become the world's richest cat.
Since the death of his 94-year-old mistress last month, he has become a property magnate — or perhaps mognate — with flats and houses worth an estimated €10m scattered from Milan in the north to Calabria in the south.
In a handwritten will, signed on 26 November, 2009, Tommaso's mistress — the childless widow of a successful builder — gave her lawyers the task of identifying "the animal welfare body or association to which to leave the inheritance and the task of looking after the cat Tommaso". ...
Ta much, Glenn321
Since the death of his 94-year-old mistress last month, he has become a property magnate — or perhaps mognate — with flats and houses worth an estimated €10m scattered from Milan in the north to Calabria in the south.
In a handwritten will, signed on 26 November, 2009, Tommaso's mistress — the childless widow of a successful builder — gave her lawyers the task of identifying "the animal welfare body or association to which to leave the inheritance and the task of looking after the cat Tommaso". ...
Ta much, Glenn321
Adventurer Mark Moffett (how great is that job title?) was out adventuring on Little Barrier Island in New Zealand when he found this guy. The giant, cricket-like insect was recently declared the world's biggest and is so large that it eats full-sized carrots.
Ronbeast
3 string plywood bass.
I have some scraps of plywood just laying around so I decided I might as well use them for something. I’m not really looking for a bass with an awesome sound, I’m just gonna build a bass that I think would be fun to play and cheap to build.I got the design for the body after seeing a headless bass that my friend owns.
I was just wondering, where could I get a pickup for a 3-string bass at a decent price,or could I just use a soapbar style pickup with a very wide string spacing? Also has anyone ever built a bass out of plywood? I know its considered the worst quality wood you can use for a bass but I’m only using it because I’ve got so much laying around here that I might as well do something productive with it.
ponticat
Three Strings?
Do you have some BIG scraps?
Build a bass balalaika!
3 string plywood bass.
I have some scraps of plywood just laying around so I decided I might as well use them for something. I’m not really looking for a bass with an awesome sound, I’m just gonna build a bass that I think would be fun to play and cheap to build.I got the design for the body after seeing a headless bass that my friend owns.
I was just wondering, where could I get a pickup for a 3-string bass at a decent price,or could I just use a soapbar style pickup with a very wide string spacing? Also has anyone ever built a bass out of plywood? I know its considered the worst quality wood you can use for a bass but I’m only using it because I’ve got so much laying around here that I might as well do something productive with it.
ponticat
Three Strings?
Do you have some BIG scraps?
Build a bass balalaika!
November 18, 2011 5:05 pm
By Andrew Edgecliffe-Johnson
In a rare at-home interview, the cult director opens up about being a ‘happy neurotic’ and why he’s a capitalist now
... With his books never out of print, his films on Netflix, children going to the Broadway versions and Waters narrating the part of Jessica the Hippo for Animal Planet, I ask how he likes life in the mainstream. “It’s great. It’s the final irony in my life,” he answers. “I think we need a new vocabulary, because [now] everybody wants to be an outsider. When I was one, no one wanted to be one.”
He has mixed feelings about gay culture becoming mainstream: “I miss it … I’m for gay marriage. I don’t want to do it, but I certainly think people should be allowed to, and I wouldn’t vote for anybody that would be against it. But at the same time, why do we have to be good now? Why can’t we be villains in movies?” He says it’s good that more people are able to come out of the closet, but adds: “I wish some gay people would go back in. We have enough.”
The subjects he explores in his films, including homosexuality, racism and rebellious youth, have not always been recipes for uncomplicated happiness, but Waters describes himself as “a happy neurotic”. He adds, though, that he will never retire, because “then I’d have time to be nuts”.
He took a one-man show, This Filthy World, to Australia and New Zealand in October, and in recent months he has served as guest curator at the Walker Art Centre in Minneapolis, worked on a book, exhibited in New Orleans, taken part in events from the Bonnaroo music festival in Tennessee to the Venice Biennale, and provided a Vincent Price-like cameo for the video of “The Creep”, a comedy hip hop song featuring Nicki Minaj. Still, he says (a little defensively): “Friday night I went out, wildly had a party until five in the morning with a bunch of friends, so it’s not like I’m a workaholic.”
“I have a lot of plan B, C, D, E, and F in effect,” he adds. What’s plan A, I ask? “Plan A is to make movies. The one thing I can’t do right now.”
He finds himself in a cinematic no-man’s land. Hollywood studios look only for blockbusters, while the demise of art-house cinemas makes investors reluctant to finance independent films. The last half-dozen films he made cost between $4m and $8m, he says. “Nowadays, [backers] want it to cost $500,000 to $1m. I can’t do that because I have four employees. I can’t work for nothing for two years. I’ve done that. I can’t be faux underground.”
A planned Christmas film, Fruitcake, was shelved in 2009 when the production company folded. Waters still hopes to make the film. The plot – boy runs away when he’s caught shoplifting, meets runaway girl raised by gay men who’s searching for her birth mother – “would be incredibly commercial”, he says, straight-faced. ...
By Andrew Edgecliffe-Johnson
In a rare at-home interview, the cult director opens up about being a ‘happy neurotic’ and why he’s a capitalist now
... With his books never out of print, his films on Netflix, children going to the Broadway versions and Waters narrating the part of Jessica the Hippo for Animal Planet, I ask how he likes life in the mainstream. “It’s great. It’s the final irony in my life,” he answers. “I think we need a new vocabulary, because [now] everybody wants to be an outsider. When I was one, no one wanted to be one.”
He has mixed feelings about gay culture becoming mainstream: “I miss it … I’m for gay marriage. I don’t want to do it, but I certainly think people should be allowed to, and I wouldn’t vote for anybody that would be against it. But at the same time, why do we have to be good now? Why can’t we be villains in movies?” He says it’s good that more people are able to come out of the closet, but adds: “I wish some gay people would go back in. We have enough.”
The subjects he explores in his films, including homosexuality, racism and rebellious youth, have not always been recipes for uncomplicated happiness, but Waters describes himself as “a happy neurotic”. He adds, though, that he will never retire, because “then I’d have time to be nuts”.
He took a one-man show, This Filthy World, to Australia and New Zealand in October, and in recent months he has served as guest curator at the Walker Art Centre in Minneapolis, worked on a book, exhibited in New Orleans, taken part in events from the Bonnaroo music festival in Tennessee to the Venice Biennale, and provided a Vincent Price-like cameo for the video of “The Creep”, a comedy hip hop song featuring Nicki Minaj. Still, he says (a little defensively): “Friday night I went out, wildly had a party until five in the morning with a bunch of friends, so it’s not like I’m a workaholic.”
“I have a lot of plan B, C, D, E, and F in effect,” he adds. What’s plan A, I ask? “Plan A is to make movies. The one thing I can’t do right now.”
He finds himself in a cinematic no-man’s land. Hollywood studios look only for blockbusters, while the demise of art-house cinemas makes investors reluctant to finance independent films. The last half-dozen films he made cost between $4m and $8m, he says. “Nowadays, [backers] want it to cost $500,000 to $1m. I can’t do that because I have four employees. I can’t work for nothing for two years. I’ve done that. I can’t be faux underground.”
A planned Christmas film, Fruitcake, was shelved in 2009 when the production company folded. Waters still hopes to make the film. The plot – boy runs away when he’s caught shoplifting, meets runaway girl raised by gay men who’s searching for her birth mother – “would be incredibly commercial”, he says, straight-faced. ...
Yup. It's that time again.
Matt hipped me.
merelygifted:
megellen:
gothiccharmschool:
This is possibly the most adorable thing I’ve seen all day.
megellen:
I adore bats. I had a bat nursery on my farm in an unused section of the barn. They were sooooo cute and the mommy bats got very used to me being there and looking at them. The best part? No bugs. No bugs ever. No horseflies. No regular flies. Nothing. Pretty sure I had the only horse barn on the planet that had an almost zero need for fly spray.
Bats are so cute and so wonderful - see dear Megellen’s comment!
Duly reblogged for extra batty Halloweeny goodness.
Thanks, Matt!!!1!!!
Thanks Matt!!11!!!!
Fabulous!!!!!!
"a skeleton walking his pets"
Hayes Roberts
"a skeleton walking with his pet ghost catfish"
Hayes Roberts!
Ich habe Hayes Roberts am liebsten!
Hayes Roberts ghosties!
My husband and I love the old school Mad Magazine, especially these guys. I looked for months to find a costume and there is not one in existence other then a few weird looking rubber masks, so we made every inch ourselves.
The masks are paper mache covered with fabric. The suits are extra large mans mock turtle neck shirts with piping sewn in the bottom seam and the cuffs switched. The shoes are "Crocs" covered with screen, quilting material and socks!
Our hats are a combination of two hats cut apart for the parts we needed and covered in fabric. We even paper mached a bomb and a stick of TNT. We really had a great time! ...
Bonus: Bookend wif big chops and Tudor shoe feet!!!!1!!111!!!!eleven!!!!!
Oh, my.
The English language often fails in the face of the pictures of themselves which people post online.
Get it?
It's Iron Man!
The first tourists to stay in Cornwall’s Godolphin House were the grand Tudor pile’s only guests – only living ones anyway
Maev Kennedy
Friday 28 October 2011
… Local people were avidly curious to know more of the reincarnation of a house about which they had heard so many stories. “Have you heard anything?” “Have you seen anything?”
Well … yes, actually. The cynical teenagers heard nothing, but my mother was woken by the sound of a military band in the small hours; my brother – smoking under the stars – heard voices in the locked inner courtyard speaking a language he realised he could not understand. I heard footsteps crunching on gravel and the outer gate and hall door open, and ran down to greet a welcome guest just in time for dinner to find … nobody there, and both doors locked.
Sounds carry strangely in such an old and oddly shaped house. Floorboards creak. Godolphin’s only attestable ghost is Margaret Blagge, who John Evelyn called “that blessed Saint now in heaven”, after she died of puerperal fever far away in London. Only her body came – in a procession with outriders wearing armorial crests, one of which hangs in the dining room, despite her saying, in her touching last letter: “I believe if I were carried by sea, the expense would not be very great.” The coffin lay in state in the room where my sister-in-law slept – she was startled over our weekend by a door suddenly opening. Many people claim to have seen Margaret walking in the garden.
We scattered back to Dublin, London and Barcelona haunted by the house. If newly dead Margaret came and could never bear to leave, the Kennedys completely understand.
Maev Kennedy
Friday 28 October 2011
… Local people were avidly curious to know more of the reincarnation of a house about which they had heard so many stories. “Have you heard anything?” “Have you seen anything?”
Well … yes, actually. The cynical teenagers heard nothing, but my mother was woken by the sound of a military band in the small hours; my brother – smoking under the stars – heard voices in the locked inner courtyard speaking a language he realised he could not understand. I heard footsteps crunching on gravel and the outer gate and hall door open, and ran down to greet a welcome guest just in time for dinner to find … nobody there, and both doors locked.
Sounds carry strangely in such an old and oddly shaped house. Floorboards creak. Godolphin’s only attestable ghost is Margaret Blagge, who John Evelyn called “that blessed Saint now in heaven”, after she died of puerperal fever far away in London. Only her body came – in a procession with outriders wearing armorial crests, one of which hangs in the dining room, despite her saying, in her touching last letter: “I believe if I were carried by sea, the expense would not be very great.” The coffin lay in state in the room where my sister-in-law slept – she was startled over our weekend by a door suddenly opening. Many people claim to have seen Margaret walking in the garden.
We scattered back to Dublin, London and Barcelona haunted by the house. If newly dead Margaret came and could never bear to leave, the Kennedys completely understand.
Via http://www.photoshopcreative.co.uk/show_image.php?imageID=659
Via http://eainthu.com/mydesigns.html
Via timothyjacobfuller.blogspot.com
Via www.horrorphile.net/the-orphanage
Via http://wallpapers.net/view/haunted_house-1024x768.html
"Just returned from a 5 day trip to Michigan. On our drive up to my brothers place in Marlette we drove past a house that looked so cool I had to turn around and go back and snap a picture ‘cause I figured no one would believe me! …"
Via http://www.stangnet.com/mustang-forums/765961-michigan-trip-haunted-house.html
The Haunted House by Scratchmark
Via http://faithofthefallen.deviantart.com/art/Haunted-House-162819043
Via http://dark—typhoon.deviantart.com/art/Halloween-haunted-house-141585637
Windhouse, the most haunted house in Britain
Windhouse, Shetland Islands
Via http://www.panoramio.com/photo/16951236
Blame MSiegel. ;)
#761; Exhibit A for the Defense
Posted: 07 Oct 2011 12:00 AM PDT
the CRACK of wheel on skull was heard for three miles around. travelers fell into ditches. farmwives clutched their hens close. it is even said that a baby born that very instant later developed a mild round protuberance on the wrists and ankles that has never been fully explained
Posted: 07 Oct 2011 12:00 AM PDT
the CRACK of wheel on skull was heard for three miles around. travelers fell into ditches. farmwives clutched their hens close. it is even said that a baby born that very instant later developed a mild round protuberance on the wrists and ankles that has never been fully explained
Orchids use bizarre devices to ensure they reproduce – including impersonating the sex organs of a female bee
#752; The Straw Man at Home
Posted: 02 Sep 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Sluurrrppppp
Posted: 02 Sep 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Sluurrrppppp
#751; The Beast in the Labyrinth
Posted: 29 Aug 2011 10:39 PM PDT
You're lucky I didn't show you what IT'S running from
Posted: 29 Aug 2011 10:39 PM PDT
You're lucky I didn't show you what IT'S running from
#406; In which there’s a Problem in the Orchestra
Posted: 26 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
rodney kill the violinssssss
Posted: 26 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
rodney kill the violinssssss
Champion horse Topper took the ducklings under his wing – well, hoof – after allowing their mother, Lola, to lay a dozen eggs in his stable. He kept watch over them for a month before they hatched and then scared away foxes and dogs that got too close. (Metro UK)
Ta much, dear MSiegel
… ‘Far from being upset, Topper really likes his little duck family,’ said Kim Stevens, yard manager at the stables in Milland, West Sussex.
‘He was in and out of the stable all the time but every time he came back in, the first thing he did was look around to make sure they were still there.’
It is thought Lola moved in with Topper after her last lot of eggs were eaten by a fox. Before the new batch hatched, staff moved them to a safe corner of the straw so Topper, who was recently ridden to victory at the British Open Indoor Cross Country, did not accidentally squash them. …
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Pigeons have become one of the most revered creatures in the British Isles after their strong inclination to ‘shit on things’ became much admired following the unveiling of a statue of former US president Ronald Reagan.
The 10-foot bronze statue was specially commissioned to “recognise Mr Reagan’s contribution to ending the Cold War” which he single-handedly had virtually nothing to do with.
Mr Reagan died in 2004, aged 93, after suffering from Alzheimer’s disease from birth.
It is hoped that the statue, which has been unveiled at a ceremony outside the American embassy in central London, will become completely covered in pigeon shit in time for the 2012 Olympic games. …
Ta much, dear MSiegel
The 10-foot bronze statue was specially commissioned to “recognise Mr Reagan’s contribution to ending the Cold War” which he single-handedly had virtually nothing to do with.
Mr Reagan died in 2004, aged 93, after suffering from Alzheimer’s disease from birth.
It is hoped that the statue, which has been unveiled at a ceremony outside the American embassy in central London, will become completely covered in pigeon shit in time for the 2012 Olympic games. …
Ta much, dear MSiegel
#750; The Fickle Strawberry
Posted: 23 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
The strawberry has an artistic temperament.
Posted: 23 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
The strawberry has an artistic temperament.
If you came here to find out what it's all about, get lost. If, however, you came here to shake loose the elephants in the cuffs of your pants I encourage you to do so, only make sure that the truculent blues of their eyes stay well in place, if not moreso. This is DADA. All others, take your business to the void where it belongs.
#749; In which Hubert becomes a Real Boy
Posted: 18 Aug 2011 11:38 PM PDT
close enough
Posted: 18 Aug 2011 11:38 PM PDT
close enough
'Isn't the Democrat/Republican choice in the US really a choice between good and evil?" someone tweeted me during last week's Republican debate in Iowa. On the one hand, such a reductive perspective only exacerbates the dysfunctionally hyper-partisan current state of American politics, with the Republicans retreating to a wing so far right it would have given their beloved Ronald Reagan whiplash.
On the other hand, the message did arrive just moments after the morally repulsive Rick Santorum had finished explaining that abortions must be denied even to victims of rape and incest because the baby shouldn't be "victimised twice", concentrating so deeply on maintaining his sanctimonious facial expression that he hadn't the mental space to consider that maybe it would be the raped woman who would be victimised twice if she were to be denied an abortion if she wished to have one. But then, of course, it's hard to answer intelligently when one talks out of one's arse and the brain is therefore so far away from one's speaking orifice.
Anal vocalisation is not the only explanation for much of the Grand Old party's (GOP) behaviour and pronouncements in recent days: rather, it is, I can exclusively reveal, currently engaged in a mash-up of 1984 and It's a Wonderful Life, two pieces of fiction created over 60 years ago, which goes some way to explaining the distinct smack of irrelevance to the party today. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
On the other hand, the message did arrive just moments after the morally repulsive Rick Santorum had finished explaining that abortions must be denied even to victims of rape and incest because the baby shouldn't be "victimised twice", concentrating so deeply on maintaining his sanctimonious facial expression that he hadn't the mental space to consider that maybe it would be the raped woman who would be victimised twice if she were to be denied an abortion if she wished to have one. But then, of course, it's hard to answer intelligently when one talks out of one's arse and the brain is therefore so far away from one's speaking orifice.
Anal vocalisation is not the only explanation for much of the Grand Old party's (GOP) behaviour and pronouncements in recent days: rather, it is, I can exclusively reveal, currently engaged in a mash-up of 1984 and It's a Wonderful Life, two pieces of fiction created over 60 years ago, which goes some way to explaining the distinct smack of irrelevance to the party today. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
#748; In which Marsha is lost
Posted: 16 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Before I was just confused -- but now I'm titillated AND confused!
Posted: 16 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Before I was just confused -- but now I'm titillated AND confused!
#747; In which Henry thinks for Himself
Posted: 12 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Posted: 12 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Dear Mr & Mrs Cameron,
Why did you never take the time to teach your child basic morality?
As a young man, he was in a gang that regularly smashed up private property. We know that you were absent parents who left your child to be brought up by a school rather than taking responsibility for his behaviour yourselves. The fact that he became a delinquent with no sense of respect for the property of others can only reflect that fact that you are terrible, lazy human beings who failed even in teaching your children the difference between right and wrong. I can only assume that his contempt for the small business owners of Oxford is indicative of his wider values.
Even worse, your neglect led him to fall in with a bad crowd. He became best friends with a young man who set fire to buildings for fun. And others:
There’s Michael Gove, whose wet-lipped rage was palpable on Newsnight last night. This is the Michael Gove who confused one of his houses with another of his houses in order to avail himself of £7,000 of the taxpayers’ money to which he was not entitled (or £13,000, depending on which house you think was which).
Or Hazel Blears, who was interviewed in full bristling peahen mode for almost all of last night. She once forgot which house she lived in, and benefited to the tune of £18,000. At the time she said it would take her reputation years to recover. Unfortunately not.
But, of course, this is different. This is just understandable confusion over the rules of how many houses you are meant to have as an MP. This doesn’t show the naked greed of people stealing plasma tellies. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Why did you never take the time to teach your child basic morality?
As a young man, he was in a gang that regularly smashed up private property. We know that you were absent parents who left your child to be brought up by a school rather than taking responsibility for his behaviour yourselves. The fact that he became a delinquent with no sense of respect for the property of others can only reflect that fact that you are terrible, lazy human beings who failed even in teaching your children the difference between right and wrong. I can only assume that his contempt for the small business owners of Oxford is indicative of his wider values.
Even worse, your neglect led him to fall in with a bad crowd. He became best friends with a young man who set fire to buildings for fun. And others:
There’s Michael Gove, whose wet-lipped rage was palpable on Newsnight last night. This is the Michael Gove who confused one of his houses with another of his houses in order to avail himself of £7,000 of the taxpayers’ money to which he was not entitled (or £13,000, depending on which house you think was which).
Or Hazel Blears, who was interviewed in full bristling peahen mode for almost all of last night. She once forgot which house she lived in, and benefited to the tune of £18,000. At the time she said it would take her reputation years to recover. Unfortunately not.
But, of course, this is different. This is just understandable confusion over the rules of how many houses you are meant to have as an MP. This doesn’t show the naked greed of people stealing plasma tellies. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
#746; There is No Sadder Creature
Posted: 09 Aug 2011 02:32 AM PDT
Mr. Meanscary would LIKE to give back to his community and foster civic engagement, if you people would just LET HIM
Posted: 09 Aug 2011 02:32 AM PDT
Mr. Meanscary would LIKE to give back to his community and foster civic engagement, if you people would just LET HIM
#745; The Deadliest Puppy Butt
Posted: 05 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We came to this country to escape the terrible famine...The CHILD FAMINE
Posted: 05 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We came to this country to escape the terrible famine...The CHILD FAMINE
#744; In which Anything is tried once
Posted: 02 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Ask not for whom the Mortality Tuba blaats -- IT BLAATS FOR THEE
Posted: 02 Aug 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Ask not for whom the Mortality Tuba blaats -- IT BLAATS FOR THEE
Slow down a little, genius: I'm merely gifted., § tristan tzara, hans arp e hans richter a zurigo...
§ tristan tzara, hans arp e hans richter a zurigo ‘17 (by M U F)
Advertising icons, left to right: 1. "Fresh-Up Freddie", 7-Up,1959 2. OK Rubber Welders "Autofloat" tires 1960s 3. Clanky Chocolate Flavored Syrup, 1963 4. "Chesty Boy", Chesty Potato Chips, 1962 5. Hot Point Devil, Hot Point Appliances, 1935.
#743; Reports from the Scene
Posted: 29 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
mom can I please have a glass of water #downtownriots
Posted: 29 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
mom can I please have a glass of water #downtownriots
#742; In which is dug a Passage
Posted: 26 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
ALL THE MEDIA DOWN HERE IS ENCODED AS REGION 666, IS THAT OKAY
Posted: 26 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
ALL THE MEDIA DOWN HERE IS ENCODED AS REGION 666, IS THAT OKAY
Please enjoy this newly-colored (by me!) classic — one of the first Wondermark comics I ever made, originally published July 22nd, 2003!
#013; In which an Interruption occurs
Posted: 22 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
man, nimble.
#013; In which an Interruption occurs
Posted: 22 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
man, nimble.
#741; The Elusive Goofy Elk
Posted: 19 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
GOOF'D!
Posted: 19 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
GOOF'D!
Media Titan Loses Closest Ally
POSTED July 14, 2011
LONDON (The Borowitz Report) – In a blow that many insiders saw as the last straw for embattled media titan Rupert Murdoch, Satan today returned Mr. Murdoch’s soul to him and demanded his money back.
“Rupert Murdoch has done my bidding for decades, but that relationship is now terminated,” read the terse statement from the Prince of Darkness, who close associates said has been “disgusted” by Murdoch’s recent activities.
Purchased by Satan in Melbourne, Australia in 1951, Mr. Murdoch’s soul is estimated to have a current value of nine dollars (US).
Around the media world, observers were stunned by this latest setback for Mr. Murdoch, who in Satan is losing one of his closest and most powerful allies.
But according to Ian Langramstone, who at his post as the University of Nottingham has studied Mr. Murdoch’s relationship with Satan for years, the slap in the face from the Lord of Misrule should not come as a surprise.
“Satan never wants to be the last one to desert a sinking ship,” said Mr. Langromstone. “He always takes his lead from British politicians.”
In what many saw a tacit admission of the depth of his current problems, Mr. Murdoch today cancelled plans to purchase the remainder of the British government that he does not already own. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
POSTED July 14, 2011
LONDON (The Borowitz Report) – In a blow that many insiders saw as the last straw for embattled media titan Rupert Murdoch, Satan today returned Mr. Murdoch’s soul to him and demanded his money back.
“Rupert Murdoch has done my bidding for decades, but that relationship is now terminated,” read the terse statement from the Prince of Darkness, who close associates said has been “disgusted” by Murdoch’s recent activities.
Purchased by Satan in Melbourne, Australia in 1951, Mr. Murdoch’s soul is estimated to have a current value of nine dollars (US).
Around the media world, observers were stunned by this latest setback for Mr. Murdoch, who in Satan is losing one of his closest and most powerful allies.
But according to Ian Langramstone, who at his post as the University of Nottingham has studied Mr. Murdoch’s relationship with Satan for years, the slap in the face from the Lord of Misrule should not come as a surprise.
“Satan never wants to be the last one to desert a sinking ship,” said Mr. Langromstone. “He always takes his lead from British politicians.”
In what many saw a tacit admission of the depth of his current problems, Mr. Murdoch today cancelled plans to purchase the remainder of the British government that he does not already own. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
#739; Hoppily Ever After
Posted: 12 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
"We have so much in common!" I thought. "He likes sitting in swamps, I like kissing animals I find in swamps..."
Posted: 12 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
"We have so much in common!" I thought. "He likes sitting in swamps, I like kissing animals I find in swamps..."
#738; The Most Brazen Pickpocket
Posted: 08 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
But if we ever get it back, it's gonna have some GREAT pictures on it!
Posted: 08 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
But if we ever get it back, it's gonna have some GREAT pictures on it!
#737; So Obvious in Hindsight
That means you, Jesus
#736; In which a Child is cleansed
Posted: 01 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Put your hand over your heart -- SO THAT THE WORDS MAY TRANSMUTE YOUR VERY BLOOD TO PARASITICIDE
OHWATAGOOSIAM OWATAGOOSIAM OWATAGOOSIAM.....
Posted: 01 Jul 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Put your hand over your heart -- SO THAT THE WORDS MAY TRANSMUTE YOUR VERY BLOOD TO PARASITICIDE
OHWATAGOOSIAM OWATAGOOSIAM OWATAGOOSIAM.....
#735; The Useful Double Positive
Posted: 28 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Start listening for it. You'll hear it everywhere.
Posted: 28 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Start listening for it. You'll hear it everywhere.
#734; When Elbow Grease is Toxic
Posted: 24 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
The Darwin Awards are the only awards that take only one vote to win.
(Detail view.)
Posted: 24 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
The Darwin Awards are the only awards that take only one vote to win.
(Detail view.)
#733; Big News
Posted: 21 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
don't believe everything you read
Posted: 21 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
don't believe everything you read
#732; Ten Thoughts in Two Seconds
Posted: 14 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Only ten? Slow coach......
Posted: 14 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Only ten? Slow coach......
#731; When in Doubt, Pout
Posted: 10 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We know the corporations are bad at self-policing. Let's hope they're JUST AS BAD at self-firefighting.
Posted: 10 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We know the corporations are bad at self-policing. Let's hope they're JUST AS BAD at self-firefighting.
see more Historic LOL
Great moments in trolling history presents: The Civil Defense Test Operation!
On the morning of December 13, 1952, tens of thousands of residents of Westchester, New York, found this newspaper on their doorsteps. There was little to indicate at first glance that the lurid headlines dealt merely with a typical “civil defense test operation.”
#730; The Decaying Currency
Posted: 03 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Enthusiastic ideas are like crappy rewards points. You earn them fair and square, but then they expire faster than you think.
Posted: 03 Jun 2011 12:00 AM PDT
Enthusiastic ideas are like crappy rewards points. You earn them fair and square, but then they expire faster than you think.
For my next trick...
Location: Washington DC
Spotted by: R John Willmott
Heaven-bound
Location:
Spotted by: Neil Wild
Mudslingers represented
Location: Kotor
Spotted by: Wendy Fielder
Safety catch
Location: Valdez Alaska Airport
Spotted by: Stephen Rosenstiel
Lack of role models
Location: UK
Spotted by: Melvyn Hayward
Bamboozled
Location: Chengdu, China
Spotted by: Marcelvan Dijk
Hair today, gone tomorrow
Location: unknown
Spotted by: Lawrence Walker
/grrroooooaaaaannnnnnn
Big is beautiful
Location: Hong Kong
Spotted by: Maria Shahid
Divine rights
Location: Richmond
Spotted by: Henry Vivian-Neal
Well endowed
Location: Hanoi, Vietnam
Spotted by: Robert Webb
Hot or not
Location: Tibet
Spotted by: Adem Normaal
#119; In which a Cat has a Blog
Posted: 27 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
it's not even wordpress or blogger, it's, like, xanga
Posted: 27 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
it's not even wordpress or blogger, it's, like, xanga
AUGUST 13, 2009
Duchamp's Secret Masterpiece
A coming show sheds light on the French artist's final work
By CANDACE JACKSON
Marcel Duchamp was known for creating cryptic, provocative art out of bicycle wheels and urinals. But his final piece, an installation that requires viewers to peek through peepholes to look at a plaster model of a naked woman in front of a waterfall, was in many ways his most mysterious.
This weekend, to coincide with the 40th anniversary of its installation, the Philadelphia Museum of Art is unveiling a new exhibit on Étant donnés (which roughly translates as Given), Duchamp's last work. The show, which features previously unreleased photographs, drawings and castings used to create the elaborate installation, aims to open a new window into the French-born artist's hidden world.
Built over a 20-year period beginning in 1946, after Duchamp announced he was giving up art to play chess, Étant donnés was partly constructed in a secret space off the artist's bathroom in his small, fifth-floor walk-up apartment in Manhattan. After its completion and Duchamp's death in 1968, it was installed in the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 1969 per detailed instructions the artist had left behind. Art historians credit "Étant donnés" with being the world's first example of installation art—and a major influence on many contemporary artists, such as Jeff Koons, Matthew Barney and Cindy Sherman.
Designed specifically for the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which has the world's largest collection of Duchamp's work, Étant donnés is housed in the museum's contemporary wing. A large, old-fashioned wooden door framed in brick seems perfectly ordinary until viewers look through its two tiny peepholes. Through the small apertures, viewers see a naked woman laying down on a pile of twigs, holding a lamp in front of a hilly nature scene.
Experts say the piece could be a statement on voyeurism in art as well as a sexual metaphor. It may also be an homage to three women Duchamp loved in his life.
Much of the mystery surrounding the piece, perhaps Duchamp's most elaborate, stems from how little is known about how it was actually made. "Duchamp's work process is important, sometimes more important than the final product," says Paul B. Franklin, who works with the Duchamp family to help manage the artist's estate, and is the editor in chief of "Étant donné Marcel Duchamp," a Paris-based scholarly journal dedicated to his work.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art's exhibit begins with some of Duchamp's very early work, including a drawing he did at 15 years old of a lamp similar to the one used in Étant donnés. Michael R. Taylor, the show's curator, says it foreshadows his final masterpiece. "Things that obsessed him as a boy, still obsessed him as an adult," he says.
A catalogue that will be released to coincide with the show features 35 previously unpublished letters written by Duchamp to Brazilian sculptor Maria Martins. Duchamp and Martins, the wife of the Brazilian ambassador to the United States, carried on an affair for years during the construction of Étant donnés, before Duchamp was married to his third wife, Alexina "Teeny" Duchamp. The letters, held by Martins' family until recently, reveal much of what was unknown about how Duchamp created his last work, and provide insight into his emotional life. "My little one, let us devote the most possible time to ourselves alone," he writes on Sept. 5, 1950.
Though for the past 20 years it has been widely believed that Martins's figure was used as a mold for the nude in the piece, it wasn't previously known what materials were used to construct the model, with some experts speculating that it was made of pig skin, which could have been seen as a misogynistic statement. The letters reveal that the figure was made with plaster casts and parchment, painted to look like skin.
In recent years, some writers have argued that Étant donnés was partly inspired by Hollywood's so-called "Black Dahlia" murder in 1947 of 22-year-old Elizabeth Short. The 2006 book "The Exquisite Corpse: Surrealism and the Black Dahlia Murder" by Mark Nelson and Sarah Hudson Bayliss, theorizes that because the nude in Duchamp's installation is in a similar position to that of the murder victim's body, and because Mr. Duchamp's confidant, the photographer Man Ray, was friends with one of the suspects, Étant donnés was partly based on the case.
Duchamp scholars and most art historians disagree with this theory, partly because Duchamp started work on the piece a year before the murder took place. The artist was traveling on a transatlantic ocean liner at the time the "Black Dahlia" murder was committed. The crime remains unsolved.
Duchamp's work has a history of sparking debate. Early in his career he created a controversy at the 1913 Armory Show in New York with his Nude Descending a Staircase, No.2, an abstract, cubist-influenced painting that mimicked stop-motion photography. Critics at the time slammed it, and a New York Times review said it resembled "an explosion in a shingle factory."
Later pieces like Duchamp's Bicycle Wheel, which consists of a bicycle wheel on top of a wooden stool, were built using what he called "readymade" materials, or mass-produced objects he could purchase. In 1917 he rocked the art world with a readymade when he submitted a men's urinal to an art exhibition in New York and called it "Fountain."
Though Duchamp detested the idea of his art being turned into a commercial product, several of his pieces have fetched significant prices at auction. His perfume bottle "Belle haleine-eau de voilette" sold in February for $11.4 million at a Christie's auction in Paris of the estate of fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent, 10 times its estimated sale price.
Francis M. Naumann, owner of the Francis M. Naumann Fine Art gallery, which has sold many Duchamp pieces, says despite the recent record sale, Duchamp's work is not easy to sell.
"Ninety-nine point nine percent of works of art are meant to just be appreciated aesthetically," says Mr. Naumann. "With Duchamp, there's no choice but to penetrate about two inches behind the eyeballs into the brain."
Duchamp's Secret Masterpiece
A coming show sheds light on the French artist's final work
By CANDACE JACKSON
Marcel Duchamp was known for creating cryptic, provocative art out of bicycle wheels and urinals. But his final piece, an installation that requires viewers to peek through peepholes to look at a plaster model of a naked woman in front of a waterfall, was in many ways his most mysterious.
This weekend, to coincide with the 40th anniversary of its installation, the Philadelphia Museum of Art is unveiling a new exhibit on Étant donnés (which roughly translates as Given), Duchamp's last work. The show, which features previously unreleased photographs, drawings and castings used to create the elaborate installation, aims to open a new window into the French-born artist's hidden world.
Built over a 20-year period beginning in 1946, after Duchamp announced he was giving up art to play chess, Étant donnés was partly constructed in a secret space off the artist's bathroom in his small, fifth-floor walk-up apartment in Manhattan. After its completion and Duchamp's death in 1968, it was installed in the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 1969 per detailed instructions the artist had left behind. Art historians credit "Étant donnés" with being the world's first example of installation art—and a major influence on many contemporary artists, such as Jeff Koons, Matthew Barney and Cindy Sherman.
Designed specifically for the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which has the world's largest collection of Duchamp's work, Étant donnés is housed in the museum's contemporary wing. A large, old-fashioned wooden door framed in brick seems perfectly ordinary until viewers look through its two tiny peepholes. Through the small apertures, viewers see a naked woman laying down on a pile of twigs, holding a lamp in front of a hilly nature scene.
Experts say the piece could be a statement on voyeurism in art as well as a sexual metaphor. It may also be an homage to three women Duchamp loved in his life.
Much of the mystery surrounding the piece, perhaps Duchamp's most elaborate, stems from how little is known about how it was actually made. "Duchamp's work process is important, sometimes more important than the final product," says Paul B. Franklin, who works with the Duchamp family to help manage the artist's estate, and is the editor in chief of "Étant donné Marcel Duchamp," a Paris-based scholarly journal dedicated to his work.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art's exhibit begins with some of Duchamp's very early work, including a drawing he did at 15 years old of a lamp similar to the one used in Étant donnés. Michael R. Taylor, the show's curator, says it foreshadows his final masterpiece. "Things that obsessed him as a boy, still obsessed him as an adult," he says.
A catalogue that will be released to coincide with the show features 35 previously unpublished letters written by Duchamp to Brazilian sculptor Maria Martins. Duchamp and Martins, the wife of the Brazilian ambassador to the United States, carried on an affair for years during the construction of Étant donnés, before Duchamp was married to his third wife, Alexina "Teeny" Duchamp. The letters, held by Martins' family until recently, reveal much of what was unknown about how Duchamp created his last work, and provide insight into his emotional life. "My little one, let us devote the most possible time to ourselves alone," he writes on Sept. 5, 1950.
Though for the past 20 years it has been widely believed that Martins's figure was used as a mold for the nude in the piece, it wasn't previously known what materials were used to construct the model, with some experts speculating that it was made of pig skin, which could have been seen as a misogynistic statement. The letters reveal that the figure was made with plaster casts and parchment, painted to look like skin.
In recent years, some writers have argued that Étant donnés was partly inspired by Hollywood's so-called "Black Dahlia" murder in 1947 of 22-year-old Elizabeth Short. The 2006 book "The Exquisite Corpse: Surrealism and the Black Dahlia Murder" by Mark Nelson and Sarah Hudson Bayliss, theorizes that because the nude in Duchamp's installation is in a similar position to that of the murder victim's body, and because Mr. Duchamp's confidant, the photographer Man Ray, was friends with one of the suspects, Étant donnés was partly based on the case.
Duchamp scholars and most art historians disagree with this theory, partly because Duchamp started work on the piece a year before the murder took place. The artist was traveling on a transatlantic ocean liner at the time the "Black Dahlia" murder was committed. The crime remains unsolved.
Duchamp's work has a history of sparking debate. Early in his career he created a controversy at the 1913 Armory Show in New York with his Nude Descending a Staircase, No.2, an abstract, cubist-influenced painting that mimicked stop-motion photography. Critics at the time slammed it, and a New York Times review said it resembled "an explosion in a shingle factory."
Later pieces like Duchamp's Bicycle Wheel, which consists of a bicycle wheel on top of a wooden stool, were built using what he called "readymade" materials, or mass-produced objects he could purchase. In 1917 he rocked the art world with a readymade when he submitted a men's urinal to an art exhibition in New York and called it "Fountain."
Though Duchamp detested the idea of his art being turned into a commercial product, several of his pieces have fetched significant prices at auction. His perfume bottle "Belle haleine-eau de voilette" sold in February for $11.4 million at a Christie's auction in Paris of the estate of fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent, 10 times its estimated sale price.
Francis M. Naumann, owner of the Francis M. Naumann Fine Art gallery, which has sold many Duchamp pieces, says despite the recent record sale, Duchamp's work is not easy to sell.
"Ninety-nine point nine percent of works of art are meant to just be appreciated aesthetically," says Mr. Naumann. "With Duchamp, there's no choice but to penetrate about two inches behind the eyeballs into the brain."
Bend over
Location: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Spotted by: Andrew Turton
Please, call me Richard
Location: NSW, Australia
Spotted by: Joelle Khalife
One hump or two?
Location: Dubai
Spotted by: Craig and Gill
Seeing double
Location: Piran, Slovenia
Spotted by: James Gill
Out of the closet, into the ocean
Location: unknown
Spotted by: Michael Rolfe
Breast in the business
Location: Montevideo, Uruguay
Spotted by: Mark Badger
Don't bank on it
Location: Abaco, Bahamas
Spotted by: Michael Creagh
Break and (do not) enter
Location: Turin, Italy
Spotted by: Ian Braithwaite
Wily words
Location: Oxfordshire
Spotted by: Tobias Reynolds
This may hurt a bit
Location: Washington
Spotted by: C Simon Farrow
Open sesame
Location: Leeds
Spotted by: Ron Hurst
Walk on the wild side
Location: France
Spotted by: Pascal Jacquemain
Members only
Location: California
Spotted by: Michael Rolfe
O_o
Trash city
Location: Amsterdam
Spotted by: Martin Maloney
One head or two?
Location: Shijiazhuang, China
Spotted by: Lucy McDonald
O_o
With a side of cold shoulder
Location: Mexico
Spotted by: Gareth Wade
Billy goat's gruff
Location: Cyprus
Spotted by: David Rush
Turf wars
Location: China
Spotted by: Chris Wilson
Stop gushing
Location: UK
Spotted by: Chris Harvey
Exclusive deals
Location: Panama City
Spotted by: Nik Perfitt
"Mommy, is this where preppies come from?"
#725; In which Pete sees a Friend
Posted: 13 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
aren't we all
Posted: 13 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
aren't we all
I'm posting this esp for Matt, the dear man.
#724; A Hypothetical Scenario
Posted: 10 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION
Posted: 10 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION
French for gas
Location: Quebec City
Spotted by: Chris and Karen Evans
Top grrrr
Location: Taif, Saudi Arabia
Spotted by: Chris Deveney
Crooked smile
Location: Kawakawa, Bay of Islands, NZ
Spotted by: Ken Donelan
Surely "sperm bank"?
Location: Istanbul
Spotted by: Kyle Helke
Flippin' 'eck
Location: unknown
Spotted by: Philip Hannah
Noodles A Go-Go
Location: unknown
Spotted by: Nick Greif
Load of rubbish
Location: Luxembourg
Spotted by: John Cooper
Sci fi shopping
Location: North London Co-op supermarket
Spotted by: Sarah Gardiner-Harvey
Thank Dog
Location: New York
Spotted by: Iain Alexander
Going the extra mile
Location: USA
Spotted by: Steve Baker
... A copy was made from my original apartment key, then a copy was made from
that copy. This process was repeated until the original keys information was
destroyed, resulting in the topography of a generation.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
The Tinkerer’s Guide, Page 6 (of 8)
Posted: 04 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
A gardening tool is just any possession you don't mind irreparably soiling, CHARLES
Posted: 04 May 2011 12:00 AM PDT
A gardening tool is just any possession you don't mind irreparably soiling, CHARLES
Carp ark
Location: Broomfield, Colorado
Spotted by: Beth Cuilla
Noizee neighbour
Location: Bordeaux, France
Spotted by: David Postlethwaite
Tell Gordon there's another one...
Location: Dordogne, France
Spotted by: Jack Dixon
Baps
Location: France
Spotted by: Andy and Sue Chamberlain
Stop merkin me laugh
Location: Argentina
Spotted by: Paul Manning
Caught short
Location: Bromley, Kent
Spotted by: Dr Barry Woodhams
The student that slipped through the net
Location: Newquay
Spotted by: Bob Hayes
Fido's full
Location: Isle of Arran
Spotted by: Heather Alexander
Ltd spelling ability
Location: Dubai
Spotted by: Peter Hobbs
Windmills of Wigton
Published: Tuesday | April 26, 2011
... "Bout seven year now di government people dem, some big man inna jeep, come put up dem sinting yah. What a sinting favah plane!" Maas Sherwood said. ...
... I asked him if he had a problem with the wind turbines being set up in his community.
"Nuh really, yuh know. For dem tell we seh it ah go help fi cut down di light bill and dem ting deh," he said.
"Sometime yuh might have a one dawta wid yuh ah di rum bar and drink until yuh nice though. When dat happen and yuh look up and see dem big someting yah, yuh goodly ketch frighten and fall down," Maas Sherwood chuckled.
It was a warm day in Wigton. Of course, because it's so high up, a warm day in Wigton is cooler than it would be in many other places. From certain points, you can even catch a glimpse of the sea.
I looked up at the giant, spinning blades of the wind turbine that was closest to me. It was making a low, humming sound, hardly louder than a house fan. A small light on top of it kept blinking.
"Whole heap ah people yuh know. Whole heap ah people come here come look pon dem and teck pitchka," said Maas Sherwood.
There were a lot of houses around, some of them quite lavish.
I asked him what else was going on in Wigton.
"Well, nothing much yuh know. One time Wigton did more livelier dan now," he said.
"Wigton have a whole heap ah land space, so yuh have nuff likkle farm. But most ah di resident dem ah move out now. Everybody gone ah town."
Maas Sherwood seemed annoyed by this.
"Yeah man. Den everybody caan live ah town. If everybody live ah town, how dat woulda work?" he said. ...
Happy clampers
Location: Wakefield
Spotted by: Alastair Harries
All you can eat
Location: Kuala Lumpur
Spotted by: Don Miller
Have a safe trip
Location: Chengdu, China
Spotted by: Stuart Mansell
Road to ruin
Location: Ravello, Italy
Spotted by: Lynda Higgs
All inclusive
Location: Syros
Spotted by: Robert Ramanis
Just when you thought it was safe
Location: Namibia
Spotted by: Malcolm Stevens
Scratch and sniff
Location: Koh Chang, Thailand
Spotted by: Lozz Ledger
Penny for your thoughts
Location: Costa del Sol
Spotted by: Colin Verrill
Road rage
Location: Italy
Spotted by: Lynda Higgs
Dem call it liquid sunshine in Jamaica.
There is a Japanese folk tale which says foxes hold their weddings and wedding processions when liquid sunshine falls.
#723; Our Existing Problems, plus This
Posted: 22 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
JUST BECAUSE I'M ILLITERATE DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T SNIFF A BOOK IF I WANT TO
Posted: 22 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
JUST BECAUSE I'M ILLITERATE DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T SNIFF A BOOK IF I WANT TO
#722; The Reputation of the Mexican
Posted: 21 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
These guys are just a bunch of accountants and cobblers!
Posted: 21 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
These guys are just a bunch of accountants and cobblers!
#721; The Mexicans have become Small
Posted: 20 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We did stock the cruiser with extra matter to account for energy spent in transit, but there are only so many cows you can cram into a spaceship
Posted: 20 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We did stock the cruiser with extra matter to account for energy spent in transit, but there are only so many cows you can cram into a spaceship
Years of good breeding
Location: Oxford
Spotted by: Paul Bolding
Welcome to the free world
Location: Japan
Spotted by: Vijay Krishna Raghunathan
Best for bums
Location: US
Spotted by: Susan Kramss
Public inconvenience
Location: Derbyshire
Spotted by: Simon Howells
Unhinged
Location: Hong Kong
Spotted by: Simeon Jupp
Poll position
Location: Australia
Spotted by: Peter Hobbs
Dead or alive?
Location:
Spotted by: Paul R Ballard
Gerald Ratner shops here
Location: Romania
Spotted by: Leigh Virkus
Britain's favourite pastime
Location: Whitby
Spotted by: Josh Cockayne
Happy pills
Location: Delaware
Spotted by: Jeremy Bond
Magical mystery tour
Location: Beijing
Spotted by: Ian Gibson
An acquired taste
Location:
Spotted by: Bill Roberts
If this is the 'best'...
Location: Nigeria
Spotted by: Alan Davies
#720; Enter the Mexicans
Posted: 19 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We are SO TIRED of the STEREOTYPE that ALL MEXICANS are accountants and cobblers!
Posted: 19 Apr 2011 12:00 AM PDT
We are SO TIRED of the STEREOTYPE that ALL MEXICANS are accountants and cobblers!
"This man with a bird's nest on his head..."
Classic!
Classic!
Bat Before the Moon
* Artist: Biho Takashi, active ca. 1890-1930
* Medium: Woodblock color print
* Dates: ca. 1910
* Period: Meiji Period
* Dimensions: 9 1/4 x 9 9/16 in. (23.5 x 24.3 cm)
Ta much, dear MSiegel
* Artist: Biho Takashi, active ca. 1890-1930
* Medium: Woodblock color print
* Dates: ca. 1910
* Period: Meiji Period
* Dimensions: 9 1/4 x 9 9/16 in. (23.5 x 24.3 cm)
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Honest estate agent
Location: France
Spotted by: Ian Caple
A bum deal
Location: Alabama
Spotted by: Solomon Miller
The long way home
Location: Montana
Spotted by: Michael J Phoenix
Ruling the roost
Location: Greece
Spotted by: Ted Theodore
Billy goat’s not-so-gruff
Location: Vietnam
Spotted by: Mike
Sailor's choice
Location: Bahrain
Spotted by: Ruth Judge
Ropey cuisine?
Location: Melbourne
Spotted by: Miriam
Tale of two cities
Location: Oman
Spotted by: Dave Flint
Exit strategy rethink
Location: Basingstoke
Spotted by: Alan Knaggs
Full of beans
Location: Maryland
Spotted by: Dafydd Evans
War of words
Location: Derbyshire
Spotted by: Steve Ball
Total twaddle
Location: Chong Mek
Spotted by: Robin Stokes
Powers of perception
Location: Hythe
Spotted by: Trevor van der Merwe
Leap of faith
Location: Washington
Spotted by: Bill Macdonald
Digging deep in Islington
Published: Tuesday | April 12, 2011
... Islington seemed like a large place, but there weren't many persons around. The air was crisp but the roads full of breakaways and pot holes. It was just after accidentally stepping in one of those pot holes full of rainwater, that I met Gloria, a middle-aged woman with plump cheeks.
"Never mind, mi child," she said as I assessed my shoes for water damage. Gloria had a kind voice and thick, shiny hair.
She told me she has lived in Islington for more than 30 years and even though she has had many opportunities to leave and go live elsewhere, she likes it there too much to do so.
"Islington people different yuh know. Any Islington somebody who yuh see, yuh know dem and dem will tell yuh dat nowhere nuh nicer than right here," she said.
"Islington is not just a place. Islington inna yuh bloodstream."
Bitchen catch - and throw XD
Come on son, finish off Bambi
Location: Brisbane
Spotted by: Peter Hobbs
Impeccably positioned lampost
Location: Nagina Tandoori, Dublin (since renamed)
Spotted by: Mark
Market mania
Published: Tuesday | April 5, 2011
Wherever you might have been standing in the Old Hope Road area of St Andrew on Friday last, it would have been clear to you that something big was going on. Long lines of shiny SUVs were headed into the Ministry of Agriculture's complex for a farmers' market. An equal number of sweat-covered pedestrians also sought entry into the already crowded market where heavy winds, coupled with dusty grounds, left many with dirty shoes.
It was a warm morning and it appeared there was some amount of haste among early shoppers to get the best of the available produce.
An elderly man walking next to a much younger woman was carrying a huge plastic bag full of what looked like cabbage.
"Hold it good, Lee," said the woman. "Lucky thing we come out so early because see the crowd reach now." The man grunted and adjusted the bag, the weight of which seemed to be getting the better of him.
"Next time you bring Max with you instead, you see," he said, under his breath. "I want to know if is cabbage you plan to eat whole month."
Further inside, sellers seemed to be doing big business. One farmer, whose giant ID card hanging around his neck gave his name as Everol, was busily sorting carrots when a woman with a mole on her cheek walked up to him.
"Excuse me, sir, how much for your carrots?" she asked. Everol continued moving the bright orange carrots around with impressive dexterity.
"Hello, please," the woman repeated. Still no reaction from Everol.
"Yow!" the woman yelled.
With that, Everol's focus was jolted from the task before him and he looked up anxiously at the woman.
"Eh?" he said.
"Oh, so is so mi have to talk to you?" the woman said.
Everol looked confused.
"No, man, because I am here saying hello and can't get a reaction, and as soon as mi seh 'yow', is you dat," she explained.
Everol broke into a hearty chuckle.
"Har har hee! No man, cho!" said Everol, waving his hand.
"Is just dat mi used to, man. When mi deh ah bush ah so mi call di cow dem!" he laughed. ...
The showjumping Cow
A 15-year-old girl denied a horse from her parents has turned to a cow to fulfil her riding dreams.
A 15-year-old girl denied a horse from her parents has turned to a cow to fulfil her riding dreams.
...the second clip was from Neil Gaiman's episode, "The Doctor's Wife." The Doctor, Amy and Rory are on the spaceship graveyard planet, meeting a group of four or five people — including an Ood. Amy is alarmed by the Ood, but the Doctor tells her not to be scared. The Ood has a broken speech globe, but the Doctor repairs it — at which point, a babble of weird voices comes out until it shuts off. The Doctor is incredibly freaked out, and starts asking who else is there. Just The House, explains the older woman in the group of natives. They're inside The House and standing on it — the whole planet is The Room. The Doctor can meet The House if he likes. The Doctor is very eager to do so — and Amy asks what those voices were. "Time Lords," the Doctor explains. Near here someplace, there are "lots and lots of Time Lords."
Both Toby Haynes and Mark Sheppard talked about how excited they were to get to work on Doctor Who — Sheppard was so busy shooting Supernatural, he almost didn't get to do Who, but then he had a ten-day break and they asked if he could fly out and do Who the next day. Sheppard responded, "With bells on."
And Sheppard talked a bit about being in the first two-parter, set in 1960s America. "Nixon is scary," says Sheppard, "Talk about Steven [Moffat] writing monsters." ...
Both Toby Haynes and Mark Sheppard talked about how excited they were to get to work on Doctor Who — Sheppard was so busy shooting Supernatural, he almost didn't get to do Who, but then he had a ten-day break and they asked if he could fly out and do Who the next day. Sheppard responded, "With bells on."
And Sheppard talked a bit about being in the first two-parter, set in 1960s America. "Nixon is scary," says Sheppard, "Talk about Steven [Moffat] writing monsters." ...
Happy birthday, Zippy!
Ostentatious /|\(;,;)/|\ is my fave.
The words "Spring snow" only appeal to me when Iggy sings them in The Horse Song.
Dammit.
#714; An Insignificant Detail
Posted: 25 Mar 2011 01:00 AM PDT
I also have a bewitched nose and a hexed earlobe. At my age you just sort of acquire these things.
Posted: 25 Mar 2011 01:00 AM PDT
I also have a bewitched nose and a hexed earlobe. At my age you just sort of acquire these things.
Featured photojournalist: Jim Lo Scalzo
Based in Washington DC, photojournalist Jim Lo Scalzo recently joined EPA after 16 years shooting for the news magazine US News & World Report. Here he visits California's Salton Sea
I'd love to visit the Salton Sea, but that's a weird & creative Detroiter for ya: many of us - in self-defense, mind - rather perversely find the abandoned attractive.
Oh, and Mud Pots FTW!
Based in Washington DC, photojournalist Jim Lo Scalzo recently joined EPA after 16 years shooting for the news magazine US News & World Report. Here he visits California's Salton Sea
I'd love to visit the Salton Sea, but that's a weird & creative Detroiter for ya: many of us - in self-defense, mind - rather perversely find the abandoned attractive.
Oh, and Mud Pots FTW!
Our Diana, who wets her paw in a small stream of water in the bathtub then and licks it, is a mere ahem dabbler.
#394; That’s What Happens
Posted: 22 Mar 2011 01:00 AM PDT
it really is pretty straightforward
Posted: 22 Mar 2011 01:00 AM PDT
it really is pretty straightforward
Lieutenant of love
Location: Czech Republic
Spotted by: Helena
What are shoe talking about?
Location: Japan
Spotted by: Matthew Wheeler
Poor Pedro
Location: San Pedro del Pinatar, Alicante
Spotted by: Peter Clarke
Bit of a mouthful
Location: Hong Kong
Spotted by: Georg Mathisen
Location: Delhi
Spotted by: Lynda Young
The limits of my understanding
Location: Japan
Spotted by: Matthew Wheeler
Funny business
Location: Dubai
Spotted by: Mike and Alison Thirlwall
Back to scool
Location: Florida
Spotted by: Jack Fillingham
He's a complicated man...
Location: Hong Kong
Spotted by: Kingsley Smith
Pet hates
Location: unknown
Spottted by: Colin Skilton
[Ed. Note: I did not add the above extra 't' - that's their very own amusing typomagraphical erorr.]
The headline provoked hunderds of complaints
Location: Hawkhurst, Kent
Spotted by: Charles Holden
MoD rejects Gaddafi low-flying aircraft complaint
Serious online blow to Libyan tyrant
Serious online blow to Libyan tyrant
#711; The Miserable Faun
Posted: 15 Mar 2011 01:00 AM PDT
I keep the 600-thread-count sheets in the linen closet because I DON'T DESERVE THEM
That's a fawn, Mr Malki! not a faun.........
Arnold Böcklin
Faun, einer Amsel zupfeifend
1863
Arnold Böcklin
Faun Whistling to a Blackbird
1875
Posted: 15 Mar 2011 01:00 AM PDT
I keep the 600-thread-count sheets in the linen closet because I DON'T DESERVE THEM
That's a fawn, Mr Malki! not a faun.........
Arnold Böcklin
Faun, einer Amsel zupfeifend
1863
Arnold Böcklin
Faun Whistling to a Blackbird
1875
Only in America
Location: Rutherford County, North Carolina
Spotted by: Nick Walton
We have lift off
Location: aeroplane dashboard, Tanzania
Spotted by: Stephanie Ulcoq
Felling confused
Location: a gift box of dolls' dresses
Spotted by: Valerie Heavey
#708; Everything needs a Metric
Posted: 08 Mar 2011 12:00 AM PST
Posted: 08 Mar 2011 12:00 AM PST
Bare essencials
Location: Leicester Square, London
Spotted by: Kieran Meeke
High-rise to the occasion
Location: Tzaneen, South Africa
Spotted by: Claire Brown
Can't find what you're looking for?
Location: Hong Kong
Spotted by: Uwe
Napkin or loo roll?
Location: Koh Lanta, Thailand
Spotted by: Ollie Edmonds
Odds and ends
Location: Beijing
Spotted by: Bill Anderson
[Ed. Note: I'd've captioned that one "Bits and bobs," as expected.]
Earn that C grade
Location: London
Spotted by: name withheld
Utslightly confusing
Location: Shanghai
Spotted by: Veronica Fox
[Ed. Note: Veronica Fox is one of the best names I've ever encountered. That name just sounds like fame; please pardon the rhyme.]
A burning desire to go
Location: Lauguedoc, France
Spotted by: Marion Webster
[Ed. Note: Marion Webster is child abuse, even if you love dictionaries. They didn't name the child Miriam, thank God/dess, but still!]
Food, phlegm and fun
Location: Qatar
Spotted by: Lucy Pritchard
Feel my fittings
Location: unknown
Spotted by: Lucy Pritchard
Cut to the chase
Location: Kalmagden Fortress, Belgrade
Spotted by: Kern O'Neill
Double Dutch
Location: Amsterdam
Spotted by: Jason Whitney
[Ed. Note: Leave it alone if it's a tadpole, but if it's what I think it is, KILL IT! KIIIILL IT!1!!!]
Easy exit
Location: Nuneaton, Warwickshire
Spotted by: Emily Sitch
It's fround upon
Location: Spain
Spotted by: Chris Rose
Ta much, dear MSiegel
#707; In which a Breakthrough is made
Posted: 04 Mar 2011 02:26 AM PST
Any princess who can tame this beast DESERVES to rule a nation.
Posted: 04 Mar 2011 02:26 AM PST
Any princess who can tame this beast DESERVES to rule a nation.
Traditional Chinese opera shoes
Looks sneakery, innit. Most curious indeed.
Funky traditional Hanfu Dragon shoes
Peonies & Phoenixes (Phoenices?!)
Great toes!!1!!!!
/WANT boots!
They have round toes...
...and flowers on....
...but I don't care!
/WANT /WANT /WANT
Tiger baby shoes
Childrens' tiger shoes
Ladies' tiger shoes
Perfect for a Kindergarten or early Elementary school teacher
More great toes!
DERANGE!!! DERANGE!!! — Introducing the Dalek-Cthulhu Hybrid
February 14th, 2011
Because the universe wasn’t enough enough peril from my tiny Cthulhus, I created the Cythulhu, a Cylon-Cthulhu hybrid. And then, because I could still sleep at night, I made this:
This one is the prototype. I haven’t had a chance to give him a proper photo shoot and won’t be listing him in my store for at least another week because of my commissions queue. Some initial notes—he doesn’t have arms or plunger/shooter appendages because arms look wrong & the others ended up looking awkward in yarn. He DOES have wings though. Think of him as Davros-esque. ...
February 14th, 2011
Because the universe wasn’t enough enough peril from my tiny Cthulhus, I created the Cythulhu, a Cylon-Cthulhu hybrid. And then, because I could still sleep at night, I made this:
This one is the prototype. I haven’t had a chance to give him a proper photo shoot and won’t be listing him in my store for at least another week because of my commissions queue. Some initial notes—he doesn’t have arms or plunger/shooter appendages because arms look wrong & the others ended up looking awkward in yarn. He DOES have wings though. Think of him as Davros-esque. ...
... They make you feel good, Apple products. The little touches: the rounded corners, the strokeable screens, the satisfying clunk as you fold the Macbook shut – it's serene. Untroubled. Like being on Valium.
Until, that is, you try to do something Apple doesn't want you to do. At which point you realise your shiny chum isn't on your side. It doesn't even understand sides. Only Apple: always Apple.
Here's a familiar, mundane scenario: you've got an iPhone with loads of music on it. And you've got a laptop with a new album on it. You want to put the new album on your phone. But you can't hook them up and simply drag-and-drop the files like you could with, ooh, almost any other device. Instead, Apple insists you go through iTunes.
Microsoft gets a lot of stick for producing clunky software. But even during the dark days of the animated paperclip, or the infuriating ".docx" Word extension, they never shat out anything as abominable as iTunes – a hideous binary turd that transforms the sparkling world of music and entertainment into a stark, unintuitive spreadsheet.
Plug your old Apple iPhone into your new Apple Macbook for the first time, and because the two machines haven't been formally introduced, iTunes will babble about "syncing" one with the other. It claims it simply MUST delete everything from the old phone before putting any new stuff on it. Why? It won't tell you. It'll just cheerfully ask if you want to proceed, like an upbeat robot butler that can't understand why you're crying.
No one uses terms like "sync" in real life. Not even C3PO. If I sync my DVD collection with yours, will I end up with one, two, or no copies of Santa Claus the Movie? It's like trying to work out the consequences of time travel, but less fun, and with absolutely no chance of being adapted into a successful screenplay.
Apple's "sync" bullshit is a deception, which pretends to be making your life easier, when it's actually all about wresting control from you. If you could freely transfer any file you wanted onto your gadget, Apple might conceivably lose out on a few molecules of gold. So rather than risk that, they'll choose – every single time – to restrict your options, without so much as blinking. ...
Until, that is, you try to do something Apple doesn't want you to do. At which point you realise your shiny chum isn't on your side. It doesn't even understand sides. Only Apple: always Apple.
Here's a familiar, mundane scenario: you've got an iPhone with loads of music on it. And you've got a laptop with a new album on it. You want to put the new album on your phone. But you can't hook them up and simply drag-and-drop the files like you could with, ooh, almost any other device. Instead, Apple insists you go through iTunes.
Microsoft gets a lot of stick for producing clunky software. But even during the dark days of the animated paperclip, or the infuriating ".docx" Word extension, they never shat out anything as abominable as iTunes – a hideous binary turd that transforms the sparkling world of music and entertainment into a stark, unintuitive spreadsheet.
Plug your old Apple iPhone into your new Apple Macbook for the first time, and because the two machines haven't been formally introduced, iTunes will babble about "syncing" one with the other. It claims it simply MUST delete everything from the old phone before putting any new stuff on it. Why? It won't tell you. It'll just cheerfully ask if you want to proceed, like an upbeat robot butler that can't understand why you're crying.
No one uses terms like "sync" in real life. Not even C3PO. If I sync my DVD collection with yours, will I end up with one, two, or no copies of Santa Claus the Movie? It's like trying to work out the consequences of time travel, but less fun, and with absolutely no chance of being adapted into a successful screenplay.
Apple's "sync" bullshit is a deception, which pretends to be making your life easier, when it's actually all about wresting control from you. If you could freely transfer any file you wanted onto your gadget, Apple might conceivably lose out on a few molecules of gold. So rather than risk that, they'll choose – every single time – to restrict your options, without so much as blinking. ...
#705; In which something is Strange
Posted: 25 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
the spiders burrowed into the carpet and when we woke up the whole house was inside a whale
Posted: 25 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
the spiders burrowed into the carpet and when we woke up the whole house was inside a whale
#704; In which Advice is shouted
Posted: 22 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
Look, I know it's your own life and all, but WHY WASN'T I CONSULTED ABOUT EVERY DETAIL OF IT
Posted: 22 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
Look, I know it's your own life and all, but WHY WASN'T I CONSULTED ABOUT EVERY DETAIL OF IT
... Dog: I am starving.
Me: Actually, no. You aren't starving. You get two very good meals a day. And treats. And Best Beloved fed you extra food while I was gone.
Dog: STARVING.
Me: I saw you get fed not four hours ago! You are not starving.
Dog: Pity me, a sad and tragic creature, for I can barely walk, I am so starving. WOE.
Me: I am now ignoring you.
Dog: STARVING.
Dog: Did you hear me? I am starving.
Dog: Are you seriously ignoring me? Fine.
[There is a pause, during which the dog exits the room in a pointed manner.]
[From the kitchen, there comes a noise like someone is eating a baseball bat.]
Me, yelling: What the hell are you doing?
Me: *makes haste for the kitchen and finds dog there*
Dog: *picks up entire raw sweet potato, which is what was causing the baseball bat noise, and flees for the bedroom*
Me: *chases dog, retrieves most of sweet potato, less the portion which has disappeared into dog's gullet*
Dog: See? STARVING.
Me: ...That can't be good for you. It's a RAW SWEET POTATO.
Dog: I had to do it. I haven't been fed. Ever.
Me: You realize you aren't normal. Normal dogs don't steal raw sweet potatoes.
Dog, sadly: I was badly brought up.
Me: Yes. Yes, you were.
Dog: By people who starved me.
Me: Oh, no. I am not doing this again.
Me: *exits the room, bearing sweet potato*
[There is a pause.]
[There is a noise like someone is trying to eat a baseball bat very very quietly.]
Me: Oh, for the love of GOD.
Me: *heads off to the kitchen*
Dog: I am not eating a raw sweet potato.
Me: You have sweet potato parts all over your snout.
Dog: But you don't actually SEE a raw sweet potato, do you? So maybe that's just - um. A birthmark.
Me: Did you seriously eat a whole sweet potato?
Dog: You don't listen. I told you, I wasn't eating a sweet potato.
Me, searching around fruitlessly: Look. NO MORE SWEET POTATOES.
Me: Oh, what am I saying? This is you we're talking about, here. *goes to hide all the sweet potatoes that are left - which isn't many - in the fridge, because some people cannot be trusted*
Dog: *attempts to look thwarted*
Dog: *does not succeed, because her tail is wagging so hard small cyclones are forming in the kitchen*
Me: *has a very bad feeling about this*
[There is a pause, during which I do not even bother trying to return to what I was doing. I just stand in the computer room, waiting.]
[There is, as I wholly expected, a baseball-bat-eating noise.] ...
Me: Actually, no. You aren't starving. You get two very good meals a day. And treats. And Best Beloved fed you extra food while I was gone.
Dog: STARVING.
Me: I saw you get fed not four hours ago! You are not starving.
Dog: Pity me, a sad and tragic creature, for I can barely walk, I am so starving. WOE.
Me: I am now ignoring you.
Dog: STARVING.
Dog: Did you hear me? I am starving.
Dog: Are you seriously ignoring me? Fine.
[There is a pause, during which the dog exits the room in a pointed manner.]
[From the kitchen, there comes a noise like someone is eating a baseball bat.]
Me, yelling: What the hell are you doing?
Me: *makes haste for the kitchen and finds dog there*
Dog: *picks up entire raw sweet potato, which is what was causing the baseball bat noise, and flees for the bedroom*
Me: *chases dog, retrieves most of sweet potato, less the portion which has disappeared into dog's gullet*
Dog: See? STARVING.
Me: ...That can't be good for you. It's a RAW SWEET POTATO.
Dog: I had to do it. I haven't been fed. Ever.
Me: You realize you aren't normal. Normal dogs don't steal raw sweet potatoes.
Dog, sadly: I was badly brought up.
Me: Yes. Yes, you were.
Dog: By people who starved me.
Me: Oh, no. I am not doing this again.
Me: *exits the room, bearing sweet potato*
[There is a pause.]
[There is a noise like someone is trying to eat a baseball bat very very quietly.]
Me: Oh, for the love of GOD.
Me: *heads off to the kitchen*
Dog: I am not eating a raw sweet potato.
Me: You have sweet potato parts all over your snout.
Dog: But you don't actually SEE a raw sweet potato, do you? So maybe that's just - um. A birthmark.
Me: Did you seriously eat a whole sweet potato?
Dog: You don't listen. I told you, I wasn't eating a sweet potato.
Me, searching around fruitlessly: Look. NO MORE SWEET POTATOES.
Me: Oh, what am I saying? This is you we're talking about, here. *goes to hide all the sweet potatoes that are left - which isn't many - in the fridge, because some people cannot be trusted*
Dog: *attempts to look thwarted*
Dog: *does not succeed, because her tail is wagging so hard small cyclones are forming in the kitchen*
Me: *has a very bad feeling about this*
[There is a pause, during which I do not even bother trying to return to what I was doing. I just stand in the computer room, waiting.]
[There is, as I wholly expected, a baseball-bat-eating noise.] ...
#703; Thus endeth the Business
Posted: 18 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
On the bright side, the blood transfusion I got was made up of atoms that were probably once Alexander the Great!
(Read this storyline from the beginning.)
Posted: 18 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
On the bright side, the blood transfusion I got was made up of atoms that were probably once Alexander the Great!
(Read this storyline from the beginning.)
Simon Garner - 11th February, 2011
First it was Heidi the cross-eyed opossum, now meet Frank the jaguar
As big cats go, Frank the cross-eyed jaguar from Delitzscher Zoo in Germany is far from purr-fect.
But keepers are hoping that the 14-year-old beast can beat Europe's other boss-eyed box office hit Heidi the opossum by a whisker.
'Frank was born with crossed eyes and no-one ever knew why. By now he's adapted very well to his condition. He's very happy but he wouldn't survive in the wild like this," said a zoo spokesman.
'He's not much of a hunter and he doesn't like to climb, but when you look at his eyes you can understand why,' they added.
'It's sadly not possible to do anything about the defect as far as we know but Frank seems happy.' ...
First it was Heidi the cross-eyed opossum, now meet Frank the jaguar
As big cats go, Frank the cross-eyed jaguar from Delitzscher Zoo in Germany is far from purr-fect.
But keepers are hoping that the 14-year-old beast can beat Europe's other boss-eyed box office hit Heidi the opossum by a whisker.
'Frank was born with crossed eyes and no-one ever knew why. By now he's adapted very well to his condition. He's very happy but he wouldn't survive in the wild like this," said a zoo spokesman.
'He's not much of a hunter and he doesn't like to climb, but when you look at his eyes you can understand why,' they added.
'It's sadly not possible to do anything about the defect as far as we know but Frank seems happy.' ...
Ta much, dear Edosan
The milk chocolate-covered, heart-shaped, raspberry flavored (and freaky fuchsia-colored!) Valentine Peeps are Godly. I'm actually shopping around for a case of them. XD I figure if they're $1 ea or less, shipping included, then well done.
#701; The Karma of Currency
Posted: 11 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
every george washington wears a little striped jersey
Posted: 11 Feb 2011 12:00 AM PST
every george washington wears a little striped jersey
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Genius!
Shanna Sexton, 25, was driven to distraction by the reoccurring high-pitched tone and even called in workmen to try and locate the problem.
But Miss Sexton was amazed to see an African Grey Congo parrot perched on a water butt as she hung out washing in the garden.
The noisy parrot, called Sammi, had escaped from neighbour Louise Ledger's house a week earlier and spent seven days in the garden mimicking a smoke alarm.
Miss Sexton, from Torquay, Devon, said: ''I'd been hearing the noise for ages. I looked around the house checking everything. I even pulled out the washing machine.
''In the end a workman said it sounded like it may be my smoke alarm. We had problems with our smoke alarm before and I thought 'here we go again'.
''It was driving me mad but I just could not find out where it was coming from.''
But the mystery was solved once Miss Sexton spotted Sammi in the garden after seeing "Missing Parrot" posters stuck up around the neighbourhood.
Three-year-old Sammi flew out of front door as owner Mrs Ledger returned home from a shopping trip.
Mrs Ledger, 38, was distraught and spent hours searching for her beloved pet before she plastered the neighbourhood with missing posters appealing for Sammi's return. ...
But Miss Sexton was amazed to see an African Grey Congo parrot perched on a water butt as she hung out washing in the garden.
The noisy parrot, called Sammi, had escaped from neighbour Louise Ledger's house a week earlier and spent seven days in the garden mimicking a smoke alarm.
Miss Sexton, from Torquay, Devon, said: ''I'd been hearing the noise for ages. I looked around the house checking everything. I even pulled out the washing machine.
''In the end a workman said it sounded like it may be my smoke alarm. We had problems with our smoke alarm before and I thought 'here we go again'.
''It was driving me mad but I just could not find out where it was coming from.''
But the mystery was solved once Miss Sexton spotted Sammi in the garden after seeing "Missing Parrot" posters stuck up around the neighbourhood.
Three-year-old Sammi flew out of front door as owner Mrs Ledger returned home from a shopping trip.
Mrs Ledger, 38, was distraught and spent hours searching for her beloved pet before she plastered the neighbourhood with missing posters appealing for Sammi's return. ...
Horse enjoys a refreshing pint in his local pub
A horse called Basil has finally been allowed into his local pub in Staffordshire for a refreshing pint.
9 Feb 2011
The Welsh Cob stallion visits his favoured watering hole every Sunday at the Meynell Ingram Arms in Burton, Staffordshire. ...
A horse called Basil has finally been allowed into his local pub in Staffordshire for a refreshing pint.
9 Feb 2011
The Welsh Cob stallion visits his favoured watering hole every Sunday at the Meynell Ingram Arms in Burton, Staffordshire. ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Loo got to be joking
Location: Chengdu, China
Spotted by: Thomas Wilson
Meals on (reinforced) wheels
Location: Kuala Lumpur
Spotted by: Ian Riches
Morning gory
Location: China
Spotted by: Ian Moulson
What's brown and sounds like a bell?
Location: Paris
Spotted by: David Dixit
Lighten up
Location: Hong Kong
Spotted by: RJ Cameron
Funny turn
Location: nr Exmouth, Australia
Spotted by: Keith Martin
This place is always heaving
Location: Bangkok
Spotted by: Thomas Wilson
Urine trouble
Location: Bangalore
Spotted by: Rob Stevens
[all captions theirs]
The bustling town of Christiana
Published: Tuesday | February 8, 2011
... It was my first time in Christiana on a Saturday and I have to say, I was quite surprised by all the confusion. People were everywhere. Sidewalks were overcrowded, so the walking masses simply took to the roads. Meanwhile, jittery taxi drivers seemed unwilling to submit to the will of the crowd, so they just kept speeding along anyway. This created some nervous moments for me since, as far as I could tell, death was imminent. But oddly enough, nobody else seemed troubled. Strange.
I was standing just in front of a small bar when I heard a screeching noise.
"Lawd," a short man beside me muttered, shaking his head. Then, the screeching turned to extremely loud, nasal singing. Two women standing in the shade of a small tent set up on the sidewalk not far from where I was, were singing at the top of their lungs. One was holding a microphone that sent the deafening sounds into a giant speaker placed on a table. The two women were wearing long floral dresses and hats. It seemed they were singing gospel songs, but to tell you the truth, I could make out very little. The speakers were so loud and the singers so intent on screaming the words that all I could hear was noise. It was enough to prompt a headache. I turned to the man beside me.
"This happens every week?" I asked.
"Eh?" he replied.
I repeated the question.
"No, sah! Every week it happen," the man said.
The miscommunication was understandable, given all the noise. I looked across at the two women who were now bouncing up and down to the beat of their own tune. A small crowd had gathered around the tent, looking at them.
"Hurry up! Hurry up!" were the only words of the song I recognised.
The man beside me tapped me on the shoulder.
"When time dem mek up dem singing noise, me don't mind yuh know. But mek dem haffi tun it up so loud?" he asked.
A fair question, I told him.
"Eh? That is not what I'm saying! I only mean to say dat it too loud!" he said. I was confused and apparently it showed. The man looked me over then walked off. Meanwhile, the noise continued. ...
Published: Tuesday | February 8, 2011
... It was my first time in Christiana on a Saturday and I have to say, I was quite surprised by all the confusion. People were everywhere. Sidewalks were overcrowded, so the walking masses simply took to the roads. Meanwhile, jittery taxi drivers seemed unwilling to submit to the will of the crowd, so they just kept speeding along anyway. This created some nervous moments for me since, as far as I could tell, death was imminent. But oddly enough, nobody else seemed troubled. Strange.
I was standing just in front of a small bar when I heard a screeching noise.
"Lawd," a short man beside me muttered, shaking his head. Then, the screeching turned to extremely loud, nasal singing. Two women standing in the shade of a small tent set up on the sidewalk not far from where I was, were singing at the top of their lungs. One was holding a microphone that sent the deafening sounds into a giant speaker placed on a table. The two women were wearing long floral dresses and hats. It seemed they were singing gospel songs, but to tell you the truth, I could make out very little. The speakers were so loud and the singers so intent on screaming the words that all I could hear was noise. It was enough to prompt a headache. I turned to the man beside me.
"This happens every week?" I asked.
"Eh?" he replied.
I repeated the question.
"No, sah! Every week it happen," the man said.
The miscommunication was understandable, given all the noise. I looked across at the two women who were now bouncing up and down to the beat of their own tune. A small crowd had gathered around the tent, looking at them.
"Hurry up! Hurry up!" were the only words of the song I recognised.
The man beside me tapped me on the shoulder.
"When time dem mek up dem singing noise, me don't mind yuh know. But mek dem haffi tun it up so loud?" he asked.
A fair question, I told him.
"Eh? That is not what I'm saying! I only mean to say dat it too loud!" he said. I was confused and apparently it showed. The man looked me over then walked off. Meanwhile, the noise continued. ...
a fiat currency deserves a fiat history
"I got 700 dollars/Don't you mess with me!"
Ask a Gaxian: Employment—Bedding—Wedding.
February 7th, 2011
Dear Gax,
In my effort to find employment, I’ve sent resumes to several retailers offering minimum-wage jobs. So far, the only jobs I have been hired for are fixing my dad’s computer when it breaks and walking my neighbor’s dog. The problem is, both of these jobs pay significantly better than what the retailers were offering. How can I get motivated to get a real job, when real jobs don’t pay nearly as well?
– Confused Worker
Dear Confused,
I am also confused. You say you are seeking a “real job,” but the work that you are attempting to escape is lucrative. Perhaps you are self-aware enough to admit that at this stage of your development, you require structure and the illusory stability that a “real job” may provide. Or perhaps you feel yourself growing complacent and need to have your spirit hobbled by working in a retail environment. Or you are a homebody, or young, or old but immature, and would like to take steps toward independence. This is a noble sentiment, but your framing mindset is misguided.
You do not say if you have a longer-term goal for your life. Perhaps you wish to fight an animal to the death in a sporting event, as was my first ambition as a pupa. Whether you already hold this goal crystallized in your imagination or you are still choosing which animal it should be, approach job opportunities as if someone had asked you, “Will you accept this sum of money to learn _____?” Fill in the blank with the parameters of the work. Will you accept this sum of money to learn how to deal with irate customers? This is a decent skill to have, as humans are miserable and unfortunately, you will be interacting with them for quite some time. Will you accept this sum of money to learn how to run some specialized device? To become familiar with a particular class of retail product? To meet and tolerate other humans, most of whom will be insufferable but a few of whom might be good to know as you collectively attempt to stay a half-step faster than the swiftly-advancing shadow of death? ...
February 7th, 2011
Dear Gax,
In my effort to find employment, I’ve sent resumes to several retailers offering minimum-wage jobs. So far, the only jobs I have been hired for are fixing my dad’s computer when it breaks and walking my neighbor’s dog. The problem is, both of these jobs pay significantly better than what the retailers were offering. How can I get motivated to get a real job, when real jobs don’t pay nearly as well?
– Confused Worker
Dear Confused,
I am also confused. You say you are seeking a “real job,” but the work that you are attempting to escape is lucrative. Perhaps you are self-aware enough to admit that at this stage of your development, you require structure and the illusory stability that a “real job” may provide. Or perhaps you feel yourself growing complacent and need to have your spirit hobbled by working in a retail environment. Or you are a homebody, or young, or old but immature, and would like to take steps toward independence. This is a noble sentiment, but your framing mindset is misguided.
You do not say if you have a longer-term goal for your life. Perhaps you wish to fight an animal to the death in a sporting event, as was my first ambition as a pupa. Whether you already hold this goal crystallized in your imagination or you are still choosing which animal it should be, approach job opportunities as if someone had asked you, “Will you accept this sum of money to learn _____?” Fill in the blank with the parameters of the work. Will you accept this sum of money to learn how to deal with irate customers? This is a decent skill to have, as humans are miserable and unfortunately, you will be interacting with them for quite some time. Will you accept this sum of money to learn how to run some specialized device? To become familiar with a particular class of retail product? To meet and tolerate other humans, most of whom will be insufferable but a few of whom might be good to know as you collectively attempt to stay a half-step faster than the swiftly-advancing shadow of death? ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Poor old Ed Miliband. Those aren't my words. Those are the words your mind thinks whenever you see him on television. And then you feel bad for thinking that, which makes you feel vaguely sorry for him again, and that in turns feeds back into the initial pity you experienced, and the whole thing becomes a sort of infinite commiseration loop that drowns out whatever he's actually saying and doing.
I keep reading that if he really wants to build support for Labour, Miliband doesn't actually have to do anything: just sit back, let the coalition slowly appal and repel the population, and voilà: future votes will be his, by osmosis. This low-risk strategy seemed to be working. And then, bafflingly, over the past few weeks he's decided to break the spell by granting interviews and popping up for photo opportunities.
First he was interviewed by Piers Morgan for GQ magazine. Incredibly, he managed to withstand the urge to vomit long enough to describe himself as "a bit square", and mutter something about wanting to share a desert island with Teri Hatcher, Rachel Weisz and Scarlett Johansson. I can't work out whether that's a reality show I'd like to see or not.
Then he went to Afghanistan, shadowed by ITN's Tom Bradby, who was compiling a profile piece. Unfortunately, Ed looks incredibly silly in a helmet and flak jacket. Like a toucan in a fez, it just doesn't go. Rather than making Ed look like a thrusting leader, the end result was several minutes of footage which, with the sound off, looked like a report about a small boy who'd won a competition to go and see a war.
You can understand why his press advisers keep shoving him in front of the microphones and cameras. They want the voting public to get to know him. The trouble is they're getting to know him as "that drippy guy". It's not his fault. He's burdened with an inherently drippy demeanour. Image shouldn't matter, but it's impossible to blot out.
Rather than making Ed more accessible, his PR team should be doing the opposite. He's never going to come across as "one of us", so why not actively go in the other direction? Make him unknowably distant.
Here's an idea: get Ed to seal himself inside a featureless metal cube and insist on conducting all political business from within it. And vow never to be seen in public outside the box. No nerdy face for us to judge, no wet mannerisms to chortle at. Nothing to get a glib critical foothold on. Just cold, blank steel. Ditch the name Ed Miliband and insist on being referred to as "CUBE DX-9" instead. ...
I keep reading that if he really wants to build support for Labour, Miliband doesn't actually have to do anything: just sit back, let the coalition slowly appal and repel the population, and voilà: future votes will be his, by osmosis. This low-risk strategy seemed to be working. And then, bafflingly, over the past few weeks he's decided to break the spell by granting interviews and popping up for photo opportunities.
First he was interviewed by Piers Morgan for GQ magazine. Incredibly, he managed to withstand the urge to vomit long enough to describe himself as "a bit square", and mutter something about wanting to share a desert island with Teri Hatcher, Rachel Weisz and Scarlett Johansson. I can't work out whether that's a reality show I'd like to see or not.
Then he went to Afghanistan, shadowed by ITN's Tom Bradby, who was compiling a profile piece. Unfortunately, Ed looks incredibly silly in a helmet and flak jacket. Like a toucan in a fez, it just doesn't go. Rather than making Ed look like a thrusting leader, the end result was several minutes of footage which, with the sound off, looked like a report about a small boy who'd won a competition to go and see a war.
You can understand why his press advisers keep shoving him in front of the microphones and cameras. They want the voting public to get to know him. The trouble is they're getting to know him as "that drippy guy". It's not his fault. He's burdened with an inherently drippy demeanour. Image shouldn't matter, but it's impossible to blot out.
Rather than making Ed more accessible, his PR team should be doing the opposite. He's never going to come across as "one of us", so why not actively go in the other direction? Make him unknowably distant.
Here's an idea: get Ed to seal himself inside a featureless metal cube and insist on conducting all political business from within it. And vow never to be seen in public outside the box. No nerdy face for us to judge, no wet mannerisms to chortle at. Nothing to get a glib critical foothold on. Just cold, blank steel. Ditch the name Ed Miliband and insist on being referred to as "CUBE DX-9" instead. ...
Ian Sample: How did the project come about?
Isabella Rossellini: Through Sundance. Robert Redford founded the Sundance Institute to create independent film and, with the advent of the internet, he wanted to experiment with the short film format, anything from one to five minutes. That format doesn't have a distribution – the shortest film you can find on television is about half an hour. So Redford called me because I had had a long association with Sundance through films such as Blue Velvet and Big Night and I've also been at the institute working with young film-makers. They knew I wanted to start directing, so I was given a little budget to do three pilots for the first Green Porno films. Redford liked it, Sundance liked it and they commissioned more. They were very successful and we ended up making 28 episodes, shown on the Sundance Channel.
And the Seduce Me series followed?
A potential sponsor called to say they liked the films but that they couldn't support anything that had the word "porno" in it, so we made a series similar called Seduce Me. Green Porno is about the mating habits of animals and Seduce Me is about the courtship rituals of animals. Although we took out every word that could have been offensive we still didn't find any finance.
Can you describe the films?
They're short, between 90 seconds to three minutes each. They start with a close up of me saying: "If I were a fly…" and then I transform myself into a fly, with complicated and beautiful costumes. And then I show how a fly would mate. Or a praying mantis or a duck. They are meant to be comical films – there are many ways to reproduce – but scientifically accurate. ...
... What do you hope people will learn from them?
I want people to laugh and then to learn. All the animals are familiar, so the idea is you can look out in your garden and see a dragonfly and know more about it than you did before, such as the male has a sexual organ that can clean the female's sexual organ, because the female tends to be extremely promiscuous. So the male grabs the female, cleans her, inserts his sperm and then holds her by the neck until she is ready to have his babies. Little things like this I have always found comical. I have always liked animal behaviour, since I was a child and I have read a lot. I'm a bird-watcher; I'm always in my garden turning up stones to see what's underneath. ...
Isabella Rossellini: Through Sundance. Robert Redford founded the Sundance Institute to create independent film and, with the advent of the internet, he wanted to experiment with the short film format, anything from one to five minutes. That format doesn't have a distribution – the shortest film you can find on television is about half an hour. So Redford called me because I had had a long association with Sundance through films such as Blue Velvet and Big Night and I've also been at the institute working with young film-makers. They knew I wanted to start directing, so I was given a little budget to do three pilots for the first Green Porno films. Redford liked it, Sundance liked it and they commissioned more. They were very successful and we ended up making 28 episodes, shown on the Sundance Channel.
And the Seduce Me series followed?
A potential sponsor called to say they liked the films but that they couldn't support anything that had the word "porno" in it, so we made a series similar called Seduce Me. Green Porno is about the mating habits of animals and Seduce Me is about the courtship rituals of animals. Although we took out every word that could have been offensive we still didn't find any finance.
Can you describe the films?
They're short, between 90 seconds to three minutes each. They start with a close up of me saying: "If I were a fly…" and then I transform myself into a fly, with complicated and beautiful costumes. And then I show how a fly would mate. Or a praying mantis or a duck. They are meant to be comical films – there are many ways to reproduce – but scientifically accurate. ...
... What do you hope people will learn from them?
I want people to laugh and then to learn. All the animals are familiar, so the idea is you can look out in your garden and see a dragonfly and know more about it than you did before, such as the male has a sexual organ that can clean the female's sexual organ, because the female tends to be extremely promiscuous. So the male grabs the female, cleans her, inserts his sperm and then holds her by the neck until she is ready to have his babies. Little things like this I have always found comical. I have always liked animal behaviour, since I was a child and I have read a lot. I'm a bird-watcher; I'm always in my garden turning up stones to see what's underneath. ...
I'll either succeed, or be vindicated! WIN-WIN
Ras Potter of Melrose Hill
Tuesday | February 1, 2011
... I told Ras Potter it was nice of him to lend a helping hand.
"No bredrin!" he shouted. "Dis is a natural way fi mankind to live wid mankind. Is because people get wicked why someting like dat look strange, but is just a natural ting," he said.
I asked Ras Potter if sales of his pots were going well.
"Well not really yuh know. Not like one time, but fi tell yuh di truth, we just give thanks fi what we sell," he said.
"Mi nuh use wheel or nothing. Mi do everyting by hand just like inna ancient times. Mi meck flowers pot, teapot, anything. Tings slow now but it will get better," he said, grinning.
I asked him how he found life in Melrose Hill.
"Well is just a peaceful life yuh know. I used to live inna Kingston town yuh know. But I couldn't badda wid di rat race," he said.
"I just come hold a place inna di hills yah weh mi did have some land and just start over. Sometime it hard yuh know, because we haffi meck di likkle money stretch, but as dem say, from yuh have life, yuh have everyting."
Not long after, the sound of a truck struggling up the hill interrupted us. It was a small blue truck that looked like a miniature version of the ones that are used to collect garbage.
"Honk! Honk!" The driver stuck his head out the window as the truck slowly rolled by.
"Mi get it start!" he yelled, grinning. It was the same man who had earlier got the wire from Ras Potter.
"Tenk yuh bredrin! When mi ah pass back mi carry a ting fi yuh!" he yelled.
Ras Potter waved him off.
"No worry yuhself. We deh yah fi help. Guidance!" he shouted. The truck disappeared out of sight.
Ta much, dear Edosan
Flower-Cut Fluorite Tentacle Ring by HeronAdornment
......as worn by Mongolian Court Jesters hundreds of years ago.
The video is called 'Wagner's Ring Cycle as Performed by a Tugboat'
... What was it that attracted Lolrus to Bukkit in the first place? That bright blue tone? That convenient handle? The residue of fish emanating from within? We may never know (but probably the fish smell, I mean, he is a lolrus). It was not the initial attraction but the loss of a bukkit, which kicked off an entire internet meme. His loss was our our lol gain, but I like to think he’s somewhere with that bukkit of his right now, grinning just like he is in this plush. ...
... Lolrus and Bukkit are shipped in a canvas bag so they have room to breathe. Ages 7 and up. NOTE: Lolrus color changes depending on the light from seafoam green to blubber brown. Just like the real Lolrus.
Notice how I ride sidesaddle. It proves I'm a lady of quality. [ ⇐ Click de t'ing, Mon!]
Ta much, dear Edosan
... Genghis Khan, in fact, may have been not just the greatest warrior but the greatest eco-warrior of all time, according to a study by the Carnegie Institution's Department of Global Energy. It has concluded that the 13th-century Mongol leader's bloody advance, laying waste to vast swaths of territory and wiping out entire civilisations en route, may have scrubbed 700m tonnes of carbon from the atmosphere – roughly the quantity of carbon dioxide generated in a year through global petrol consumption – by allowing previously populated and cultivated land to return to carbon-absorbing forest. ...
Bats in Borneo have been found roosting in carnivorous pitcher plants.
A new study reveals that the plants benefit from nutrients in the bats' droppings.
This unusual living arrangement is apparently beneficial for the bats too as they can shelter unseen inside the plants' pitchers.
Although tree shrews have also been observed using pitcher plants as toilets, this is the first time mammals have been found living inside them.
Nepenthes carnivorous pitcher plants grow in nutrient-poor soil and rely on trapping insects to acquire enough nitrogen for growth.
Found in the peat swamps and heath forest of Borneo, N. rafflesiana elongata are remarkable for their long aerial pitchers.
However, research has previously suggested that N. r. elongata catch up to seven times less insects than other pitcher plants in Borneo.
In a new study, published in the journal Biology Letters, scientists found that the unique subspecies had a extraordinary relationship with mammals.
Dr Ulmar Grafe and his team investigated how the plants supplemented their nitrogen intake and were surprised to find woolly bats inside the pitchers.
"It was totally unexpected to find bats roosting in the pitchers consistently," says Dr Grafe.
The small Hardwicke's woolly bats (Kerivoula hardwickii) were found roosting above the digestive fluids in the plants' pitchers.
Rather than consuming the whole bat for extra nitrogen, Dr Grafe found that the plants gained from the bats' waste. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
A new study reveals that the plants benefit from nutrients in the bats' droppings.
This unusual living arrangement is apparently beneficial for the bats too as they can shelter unseen inside the plants' pitchers.
Although tree shrews have also been observed using pitcher plants as toilets, this is the first time mammals have been found living inside them.
Nepenthes carnivorous pitcher plants grow in nutrient-poor soil and rely on trapping insects to acquire enough nitrogen for growth.
Found in the peat swamps and heath forest of Borneo, N. rafflesiana elongata are remarkable for their long aerial pitchers.
However, research has previously suggested that N. r. elongata catch up to seven times less insects than other pitcher plants in Borneo.
In a new study, published in the journal Biology Letters, scientists found that the unique subspecies had a extraordinary relationship with mammals.
Dr Ulmar Grafe and his team investigated how the plants supplemented their nitrogen intake and were surprised to find woolly bats inside the pitchers.
"It was totally unexpected to find bats roosting in the pitchers consistently," says Dr Grafe.
The small Hardwicke's woolly bats (Kerivoula hardwickii) were found roosting above the digestive fluids in the plants' pitchers.
Rather than consuming the whole bat for extra nitrogen, Dr Grafe found that the plants gained from the bats' waste. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
This one will kill rich vampires & werewolves, right?
Right?
Right?
Are you can sleep in night? Are you fear vampires? Active Media Products released cool gadget special for you – Silver Bullet USB flash drive against vampires! Maybe will cannot shoot it to the hearth, but might be bullet on the bunch of keys scare away a leech.
Exploring Alley
Published: Tuesday | January 25, 2011
Whap! The loud-talking man with the pointy nose and round belly slammed three dominoes on the table, one after the other, all the while shouting curses at the men sitting across from him.
"Have dat! Have dat!" he yelled as the others looked on without expression.
I was standing just across the road, near a concrete fence in a place called Alley in Clarendon.
It seemed a fitting name for a place which, for the most part, seemed abandoned. There were remnants of what I was told was once a thriving market behind the fence I was standing next to, and a line of buildings once used as grocery shops. It appeared most of the shops went out of business many years ago. The men playing dominoes were seated just outside the empty shell of one of those buildings.
Now about 15 minutes after arriving at Alley, the only persons I came across were the domino-players and a man I saw washing a small blue van in the distance. Even from where I stood, I could tell that the van-washer was not the chatty type, and I learned long ago that interrupting a heated domino game in progress is frowned upon in these parts. So, I kept walking, eager to find someone who could tell me why Alley seemed so empty.
Walking in a straight line from the old market, I passed quite a few empty buildings, and lots and lots of bushes. Every now and again, a fast-moving taxi stuffed with far too many passengers, raced by, giving rise to thick clouds of dust. ...
... "Alley is Alley," she said, dismissively. "But nuh di same all bout?" she asked. I told her that was probably true.
"Dis river is di main ting bout Alley though," the woman said.
"Dis river mek Alley famous. It bring all kinda attention to Alley when it flood over. If ongle it coulda bring some money and hot man wid it, den wi woulda alright," she laughed.
I'm afraid Lurch is as scary as my butler could get - I wouldn't want him terrifying my guests.
I suppose I'm partly thinking of Mr Cosmo Topper's long-suffering and marvellous butler (so ably portrayed by Alan Mowbray - from the movies, with Roland Young, not the TV ones with Mr Waverly) when my Brilliant Snooty English Butler makes an appearance.
Ta much, dear Edosan
pika-peeps, fuck yeah
Posted on March 11, 2010 by Oriahna
How to make:
1. get peeps and shove sticks up their asses
2. pinch the fuck out of their lil ears
3. draw on lil pika details with food coloring
4. pika-peeps…Fuck Yeah
Ta much, dear Edosan
Posted on March 11, 2010 by Oriahna
How to make:
1. get peeps and shove sticks up their asses
2. pinch the fuck out of their lil ears
3. draw on lil pika details with food coloring
4. pika-peeps…Fuck Yeah
Ta much, dear Edosan
Fez
A fez was a type of brimless hat with a flat top. Usually made of red felt, fezzes typically, but not always, had a single tassel attached to the center of their flat tops. Judging from the number of times the Doctor encountered fezzes around Egyptians or Egyptian artifacts, the fez seemed to be closely associated with Arabic culture on Earth. ...
... The Doctor's seventh incarnation briefly donned a fez while searching through the basement of Windsor Castle, before passing it on to Ace....
Later, his eighth self wore a fez to a football game in 1977. He originally intended to land the TARDIS near the River Nile which was the reason why he wore the fez in the first place. The Doctor soon lost the fez after the police began to chase him from the stadium....
Whilst in his eleventh body, he took a fez from an exhibit in the museum where the Pandorica was, and wore it as he leapt back and forth through time. When River Song queried this by asking "What in the name of sanity have you got on your head?" he answered, "It's a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool." Finding the answer insufficient, she and Amy Pond promptly destroyed it, before continuing to reboot the universe. Later, he noted that he was missing his fez, but concluded that he could buy a new one. ...
A fez was a type of brimless hat with a flat top. Usually made of red felt, fezzes typically, but not always, had a single tassel attached to the center of their flat tops. Judging from the number of times the Doctor encountered fezzes around Egyptians or Egyptian artifacts, the fez seemed to be closely associated with Arabic culture on Earth. ...
... The Doctor's seventh incarnation briefly donned a fez while searching through the basement of Windsor Castle, before passing it on to Ace....
Later, his eighth self wore a fez to a football game in 1977. He originally intended to land the TARDIS near the River Nile which was the reason why he wore the fez in the first place. The Doctor soon lost the fez after the police began to chase him from the stadium....
Whilst in his eleventh body, he took a fez from an exhibit in the museum where the Pandorica was, and wore it as he leapt back and forth through time. When River Song queried this by asking "What in the name of sanity have you got on your head?" he answered, "It's a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool." Finding the answer insufficient, she and Amy Pond promptly destroyed it, before continuing to reboot the universe. Later, he noted that he was missing his fez, but concluded that he could buy a new one. ...
Jammie Dodger
Jammie Dodgers were biscuits filled with jam. The Doctor temporarily fooled the Daleks into thinking one was a self-destruct button for the TARDIS.
When the Daleks discovered his deception, the Doctor ate the Jammie Dodger. ...
Jammie Dodgers were biscuits filled with jam. The Doctor temporarily fooled the Daleks into thinking one was a self-destruct button for the TARDIS.
When the Daleks discovered his deception, the Doctor ate the Jammie Dodger. ...
Steller's Jay
Magpies
Bohemian Waxwing
Barbicambarus simmonsi, a newly-discovered 5-inch giant crayfish from Tennessee
Crane stealing a fish from a vendor at Mumbai harbour
Female Snow Leopard at the Central Park Zoo
Sea Lion pups at Rabida, Galapagos Islands
Splendid Fairy Wrens
The results of freezing rain in Tuxedo Park, NY
The first guy lost his phone in a swamp. It's better when he remembers the pills.
Cat ordered to do jury service
A cat has been summoned to do jury service, even after his owners told the court he was "unable to speak and understand English".
17 Jan 2011
Anna Esposito wrote to Suffolk Superior Crown Court in Boston, US, to explain that a mistake had been made, but a jury commissioner replied saying the cat, named Tabby Sal, "must attend" on March 23.
Mrs Esposito had included a letter from her vet confirming that the cat was "a domestic short-haired neutered feline".
Tabby Sal had been entered by Mrs Esposito under the 'pets' section of the last census. "When they ask him guilty or not guilty? What's he supposed to say - miaow?" She said.
"Sal is a member of the family so I listed him on the last Census form under pets but there has clearly been a mix-up."
A website for the US judicial system states that jurors are "not expected to speak perfect English".
A cat has been summoned to do jury service, even after his owners told the court he was "unable to speak and understand English".
17 Jan 2011
Anna Esposito wrote to Suffolk Superior Crown Court in Boston, US, to explain that a mistake had been made, but a jury commissioner replied saying the cat, named Tabby Sal, "must attend" on March 23.
Mrs Esposito had included a letter from her vet confirming that the cat was "a domestic short-haired neutered feline".
Tabby Sal had been entered by Mrs Esposito under the 'pets' section of the last census. "When they ask him guilty or not guilty? What's he supposed to say - miaow?" She said.
"Sal is a member of the family so I listed him on the last Census form under pets but there has clearly been a mix-up."
A website for the US judicial system states that jurors are "not expected to speak perfect English".
Nick Clegg – currently Britain's 7,358th most popular public figure, sandwiched between Maxine Carr and the Go Compare tenor – has written an article for the Sun in which he bravely stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a shamefully overlooked, uniquely burdened segment of our population.
And he's obviously given the matter plenty of thought.
"Now more than ever, politicians have to be clear who they are standing up for," he writes. "Be in no doubt, I am clear about who that is."
Who? Ethnic minorities? The poor? The disabled? The original lineup of Gerry and the Pacemakers? Beekeepers? Milkmen? Necrophiles? Yeomen?
No. They can all piss off. Because Cleggsy Bear has someone else in mind. But despite claiming to be "clear about who that is", it's a group he defines in the vaguest, most frustrating terms possible – almost as if he doesn't really know what the hell he's going on about.
He's on the side of "Alarm Clock Britain", apparently. Yeah. You know: Alarm Clock Britain. Stop staring blankly at me. Alarm Clock Britain! It's everywhere!
"There are millions of people in Alarm Clock Britain," Clegg writes. "People, like Sun readers, who have to get up every morning and work hard to get on in life."
Basically, Alarm Clock Britain consists of people who use alarm clocks. That counts me out, because I wake each morning to the sound of my own despairing screams. Which I guess makes me part of Scream Wake Britain – a demographic Clegg has chosen to ignore. There are millions of people in Scream Wake Britain, and approximately half of them voted for him.
Still, it's undeniable that millions of Britons use alarm clocks, so it's nice to know someone at the heart of government is prepared to speak up on their behalf. We are yet to discover Clegg's stance on Toothbrush Britain (Britons who use toothbrushes), or Bum Wipe Britain (Britons who use toilet paper), or Newtonian Physics Britain (Britons subjected to the law of gravity), but I think it's fair to assume he's on their side too.
Which is not to say Alarm Clock Britain is an amorphous group with no boundaries whatsoever. Students, for instance, are notorious for waking up late, so they're definitely excluded, which is just as well since the average student trusts Clegg about as much as I'd trust a hammock made of gas.
Anyway, Clegg goes on to pepper the phrase Alarm Clock Britain throughout the rest of the article as often as he can, as though it's some kind of transformative mantra, in the apparent belief that the more he repeats it, the more we'll identify with it. He even managed to slip it into TV interviews, telling BBC News that he could understand why "the people of what I like to call Alarm Clock Britain" are pissed off about bankers' bonuses (not that he promised to actually do anything about it – one of the benefits of aligning yourself with an indistinct cluster of people is that claiming to feel their pain is often enough). ...
Classic Charlie.
Ta much, dear Glenn321
And he's obviously given the matter plenty of thought.
"Now more than ever, politicians have to be clear who they are standing up for," he writes. "Be in no doubt, I am clear about who that is."
Who? Ethnic minorities? The poor? The disabled? The original lineup of Gerry and the Pacemakers? Beekeepers? Milkmen? Necrophiles? Yeomen?
No. They can all piss off. Because Cleggsy Bear has someone else in mind. But despite claiming to be "clear about who that is", it's a group he defines in the vaguest, most frustrating terms possible – almost as if he doesn't really know what the hell he's going on about.
He's on the side of "Alarm Clock Britain", apparently. Yeah. You know: Alarm Clock Britain. Stop staring blankly at me. Alarm Clock Britain! It's everywhere!
"There are millions of people in Alarm Clock Britain," Clegg writes. "People, like Sun readers, who have to get up every morning and work hard to get on in life."
Basically, Alarm Clock Britain consists of people who use alarm clocks. That counts me out, because I wake each morning to the sound of my own despairing screams. Which I guess makes me part of Scream Wake Britain – a demographic Clegg has chosen to ignore. There are millions of people in Scream Wake Britain, and approximately half of them voted for him.
Still, it's undeniable that millions of Britons use alarm clocks, so it's nice to know someone at the heart of government is prepared to speak up on their behalf. We are yet to discover Clegg's stance on Toothbrush Britain (Britons who use toothbrushes), or Bum Wipe Britain (Britons who use toilet paper), or Newtonian Physics Britain (Britons subjected to the law of gravity), but I think it's fair to assume he's on their side too.
Which is not to say Alarm Clock Britain is an amorphous group with no boundaries whatsoever. Students, for instance, are notorious for waking up late, so they're definitely excluded, which is just as well since the average student trusts Clegg about as much as I'd trust a hammock made of gas.
Anyway, Clegg goes on to pepper the phrase Alarm Clock Britain throughout the rest of the article as often as he can, as though it's some kind of transformative mantra, in the apparent belief that the more he repeats it, the more we'll identify with it. He even managed to slip it into TV interviews, telling BBC News that he could understand why "the people of what I like to call Alarm Clock Britain" are pissed off about bankers' bonuses (not that he promised to actually do anything about it – one of the benefits of aligning yourself with an indistinct cluster of people is that claiming to feel their pain is often enough). ...
Classic Charlie.
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Ta much, dear MSiegel
... Back in June, The Times’s technology columnist, David Pogue, blogged about some “autocorrect follies” sent to him by his readers, full of howlers like “Sorry about your feces” when “Sorry about your fever” was intended. Pogue sagely advised, “Especially when your boss, your parents or your love interest is the recipient of your e-mail or text message, it’s worth taking an extra moment to proofread.”
These vast new opportunities for social embarrassment are now being charted by the Web site Damn You Auto Correct! (D.Y.A.C. for short), where victims of autocorrect are invited to submit screen grabs of their most inglorious gaffes. Though D.Y.A.C. wasn’t the first to exploit this concept (a Tumblr feed with an unprintable twist on “iPhone” came first), it has quickly become an online sensation. Within days after Jillian Madison, co-founder of the Pophangover Network, set up the site in late October, D.Y.A.C. started getting a million daily page views, with hundreds of submissions every day. And now Madison has parlayed that success into a D.Y.A.C. book, due out in March.
Madison runs D.Y.A.C. as a one-person operation, slogging through submissions to find at least 25 new ones to post to the site every day, as well as keeping good ones in reserve for the book. “It consumes pretty much every waking moment,” she told me. “For now I’m enjoying it. It’s a crazy ride.” ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
These vast new opportunities for social embarrassment are now being charted by the Web site Damn You Auto Correct! (D.Y.A.C. for short), where victims of autocorrect are invited to submit screen grabs of their most inglorious gaffes. Though D.Y.A.C. wasn’t the first to exploit this concept (a Tumblr feed with an unprintable twist on “iPhone” came first), it has quickly become an online sensation. Within days after Jillian Madison, co-founder of the Pophangover Network, set up the site in late October, D.Y.A.C. started getting a million daily page views, with hundreds of submissions every day. And now Madison has parlayed that success into a D.Y.A.C. book, due out in March.
Madison runs D.Y.A.C. as a one-person operation, slogging through submissions to find at least 25 new ones to post to the site every day, as well as keeping good ones in reserve for the book. “It consumes pretty much every waking moment,” she told me. “For now I’m enjoying it. It’s a crazy ride.” ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Speed never killed anyone; suddenly becoming stationary, that's what gets you.
Koenigsegg are saying that the CCX is more comfortable. More comfortable than what? BEING STABBED?
A turbo: exhaust gasses go into the turbocharger and spin it, witchcraft happens and you go faster.
The air conditioning in a Lambo used to be an asthmatic sitting in the dashboard blowing at you through a straw.
On the Lotus Elise: "This car is more fun than the entire French air force crashing into a firework factory."
Tonight, the new Viper, which is the American equivalent of a sports car... in the same way, I guess, that George Bush is the equivalent of a President.
This is a Renault Espace, probably the best of the people carriers. Not that that’s much to shout about. That’s like saying ‘Oh good, I’ve got syphilis, the best of the sexually transmitted diseases!'
The Suzuki Wagon R should be avoided like unprotected sex with an Ethiopian transvestite.
I don't understand bus lanes. Why do poor people have to get to places quicker than I do?
Ferrari is so pleased with it they’ve named it after the founder of the company. They call it the Enzo. That’d be the same as Lotus calling their next car... ‘The Colin.’
Sure it's quiet, for a diesel. But that's like being well-behaved ---- for a murderer. ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Koenigsegg are saying that the CCX is more comfortable. More comfortable than what? BEING STABBED?
A turbo: exhaust gasses go into the turbocharger and spin it, witchcraft happens and you go faster.
The air conditioning in a Lambo used to be an asthmatic sitting in the dashboard blowing at you through a straw.
On the Lotus Elise: "This car is more fun than the entire French air force crashing into a firework factory."
Tonight, the new Viper, which is the American equivalent of a sports car... in the same way, I guess, that George Bush is the equivalent of a President.
This is a Renault Espace, probably the best of the people carriers. Not that that’s much to shout about. That’s like saying ‘Oh good, I’ve got syphilis, the best of the sexually transmitted diseases!'
The Suzuki Wagon R should be avoided like unprotected sex with an Ethiopian transvestite.
I don't understand bus lanes. Why do poor people have to get to places quicker than I do?
Ferrari is so pleased with it they’ve named it after the founder of the company. They call it the Enzo. That’d be the same as Lotus calling their next car... ‘The Colin.’
Sure it's quiet, for a diesel. But that's like being well-behaved ---- for a murderer. ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
Who was very rarely stable
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
Who could think you under the table
David Hume could out-consume
Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel
/ D - / - A / - - / - D / - - / - G / A - / - D /
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya
'Bout the raising of the wrist
Socrates himself was permanently pissed
/ A7 - / / - G Cdim7 A7 /
John Stuart Mill, of his own free will
On half a pint of shandy got particularly ill
Plato, they say, could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart
"I drink therefore I am"
Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed
/ A - - - / - AD /
Who was very rarely stable
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
Who could think you under the table
David Hume could out-consume
Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel
/ D - / - A / - - / - D / - - / - G / A - / - D /
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya
'Bout the raising of the wrist
Socrates himself was permanently pissed
/ A7 - / / - G Cdim7 A7 /
John Stuart Mill, of his own free will
On half a pint of shandy got particularly ill
Plato, they say, could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart
"I drink therefore I am"
Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed
/ A - - - / - AD /
... Some of the philosophers are portrayed according to their works.
* Kant['s] being "very rarely stable" harkens to his theory of a stable universe.
* Nietzsche's teaching of the "raising of the wrist" references the rising of the sun at the beginning of "Thus Spoke Zarathustra."
* John Stuart Mill['s] becoming ill "of his own free will" alludes to his work On Liberty, which argues for liberty that does no harm to others.
* The Descartes line, "I drink therefore I am", is a twist on his well known phrase "Cogito, ergo sum," or "I think therefore I am".
The assertion that Heidegger "could think you under the table", is another of the plays on "think" vs. "drink". ...
* Kant['s] being "very rarely stable" harkens to his theory of a stable universe.
* Nietzsche's teaching of the "raising of the wrist" references the rising of the sun at the beginning of "Thus Spoke Zarathustra."
* John Stuart Mill['s] becoming ill "of his own free will" alludes to his work On Liberty, which argues for liberty that does no harm to others.
* The Descartes line, "I drink therefore I am", is a twist on his well known phrase "Cogito, ergo sum," or "I think therefore I am".
The assertion that Heidegger "could think you under the table", is another of the plays on "think" vs. "drink". ...
True Stuff: Monk vs. the Printing Press
January 13th, 2011
In our recent discussion regarding the menace of the telephone (and electricity, and progress in general), I mentioned that there surely existed an exhortation against even the printing press, just as there seem to be curmudgeonly railings against every form of progress, in every generation. And the commenters came through!
“Yoyo” mentions the fifteenth-century abbot Johannes Trithemius, author of the work De laude scriptorum manualium — “In Praise of Scribes.” (And yes, he grudgingly had to consent to get the tract printed in order to get people to read it.) Trithemius, a lexicographer who was also deeply interested in cryptography and steganography (the art of hiding messages), understood the benefits the printing press could bring to the scholar and the layman alike, but didn’t want it to replace the work that monks and scribes were doing, or become an excuse for monks to become lazy and neglect the devotional aspect of their work.
In that day, books (codices) were artifacts. They were large, and tremendously expensive and laborious to create, and made to be durable and to last forever. Fifteenth-century monastic scribes were the latest in a long line of clergy and learned-types sharing a bibliophile tradition stretching back to the Greeks, Persians and Romans of the pre-Christian era. And when books are rare and expensive, a library becomes no different from a cathedral slathered in gold and bedecked with stained glass: the bigger and more elaborate the collection, the more impressive. And a good library was a physical testament to the character of the collector. Trithemius was definitely on the side of books in general.
But in his tract, he homes in on the hand-writing of manuscripts in specific and meaningful ways. For example, much like a painter must begin his training by copying the masters, it is only by the act of copying the Scriptures can a scribe become truly in touch with the Word of God:
[The writer,] while he is writing on good subjects, is by the very act
of writing introduced in a certain measure into the knowledge of the mysteries
and greatly illuminated in his innermost soul; for those things which we write we
more firmly impress upon the mind…While he is ruminating on the Scriptures he
is frequently inflamed by them.
Plus, it was okay that the act of copying was hard. It built character, in Trithemius’ opinion, the same way as chopping wood (though to this “interior exercise,” i.e. exercise of the spirit, he assigned far more importance). For monks, labor was part and parcel of devotion, and if you weren’t good at writing, you could do binding, or painting, or for heaven’s sake practice. And it goes even further: the labor of manuscript writing was something for monks to do — for there was no greater danger for the devout soul than idleness. ...
January 13th, 2011
In our recent discussion regarding the menace of the telephone (and electricity, and progress in general), I mentioned that there surely existed an exhortation against even the printing press, just as there seem to be curmudgeonly railings against every form of progress, in every generation. And the commenters came through!
“Yoyo” mentions the fifteenth-century abbot Johannes Trithemius, author of the work De laude scriptorum manualium — “In Praise of Scribes.” (And yes, he grudgingly had to consent to get the tract printed in order to get people to read it.) Trithemius, a lexicographer who was also deeply interested in cryptography and steganography (the art of hiding messages), understood the benefits the printing press could bring to the scholar and the layman alike, but didn’t want it to replace the work that monks and scribes were doing, or become an excuse for monks to become lazy and neglect the devotional aspect of their work.
In that day, books (codices) were artifacts. They were large, and tremendously expensive and laborious to create, and made to be durable and to last forever. Fifteenth-century monastic scribes were the latest in a long line of clergy and learned-types sharing a bibliophile tradition stretching back to the Greeks, Persians and Romans of the pre-Christian era. And when books are rare and expensive, a library becomes no different from a cathedral slathered in gold and bedecked with stained glass: the bigger and more elaborate the collection, the more impressive. And a good library was a physical testament to the character of the collector. Trithemius was definitely on the side of books in general.
But in his tract, he homes in on the hand-writing of manuscripts in specific and meaningful ways. For example, much like a painter must begin his training by copying the masters, it is only by the act of copying the Scriptures can a scribe become truly in touch with the Word of God:
of writing introduced in a certain measure into the knowledge of the mysteries
and greatly illuminated in his innermost soul; for those things which we write we
more firmly impress upon the mind…While he is ruminating on the Scriptures he
is frequently inflamed by them.
Plus, it was okay that the act of copying was hard. It built character, in Trithemius’ opinion, the same way as chopping wood (though to this “interior exercise,” i.e. exercise of the spirit, he assigned far more importance). For monks, labor was part and parcel of devotion, and if you weren’t good at writing, you could do binding, or painting, or for heaven’s sake practice. And it goes even further: the labor of manuscript writing was something for monks to do — for there was no greater danger for the devout soul than idleness. ...
Ta much, dear Edosan
parasol right up the nose
Portland hospitality
Published: Tuesday | January 11, 2011
I had heard a faint, rustling sound behind me but honestly thought nothing of it. It was a windy morning afterall, and there were a lot of trees and bushes around. In any case, I was busy gazing at the scenery before me in Hope Bay, Portland. I had found myself on a hill overlooking a large area of open, green land that looked like it had been untouched since creation. The air was fresh and the temperature perfect. I almost forgot where I was. That is, until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Wah deh gwaan?" someone shouted. Surprised by the sudden remark, I whirled around, fists clenched, ready to swing, feet limber, ready for take-off.
It was the welcoming smile on the face of the man standing behind me that kept me still. He was a tall fellow, bearded, with dreadlocks. He wore a black T-shirt and carried a bag full of green bananas on his head. He had another bag slung over his left shoulder and held a machete in his right hand.
"Wah happen, man? Long time I nuh see you!" he said, seeming genuinely excited to see me. I smiled and returned the greeting, all the while searching my thoughts for some recollection of the man. I came up with nothing. Sheepishly, I was about to ask him if we had met before. The man with the bag of bananas on his head, though, kept speaking.
"You did gone weh? Mi know man! Is so yuh haffi go weh and come back some time," he said, nodding. "Is a pity Miss Nicey not here fi see yuh. She woulda please to know yuh is here."
That proved to me that the man had mistaken me for someone else. I tried to tell him but he hardly gave me a chance.
"Yuh keeping good though? Yeah man, yuh keeping good. It good when respectable gentleman like yuh can come back and see what is happening. Nice man, nice," he smiled.
"Di last time Miss Monica daughter see yuh she say you not coming back around here and mi tell har dat is not true. Mi will glad fi go tell har dat mi see you," he said. ...
Published: Tuesday | January 11, 2011
I had heard a faint, rustling sound behind me but honestly thought nothing of it. It was a windy morning afterall, and there were a lot of trees and bushes around. In any case, I was busy gazing at the scenery before me in Hope Bay, Portland. I had found myself on a hill overlooking a large area of open, green land that looked like it had been untouched since creation. The air was fresh and the temperature perfect. I almost forgot where I was. That is, until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Wah deh gwaan?" someone shouted. Surprised by the sudden remark, I whirled around, fists clenched, ready to swing, feet limber, ready for take-off.
It was the welcoming smile on the face of the man standing behind me that kept me still. He was a tall fellow, bearded, with dreadlocks. He wore a black T-shirt and carried a bag full of green bananas on his head. He had another bag slung over his left shoulder and held a machete in his right hand.
"Wah happen, man? Long time I nuh see you!" he said, seeming genuinely excited to see me. I smiled and returned the greeting, all the while searching my thoughts for some recollection of the man. I came up with nothing. Sheepishly, I was about to ask him if we had met before. The man with the bag of bananas on his head, though, kept speaking.
"You did gone weh? Mi know man! Is so yuh haffi go weh and come back some time," he said, nodding. "Is a pity Miss Nicey not here fi see yuh. She woulda please to know yuh is here."
That proved to me that the man had mistaken me for someone else. I tried to tell him but he hardly gave me a chance.
"Yuh keeping good though? Yeah man, yuh keeping good. It good when respectable gentleman like yuh can come back and see what is happening. Nice man, nice," he smiled.
"Di last time Miss Monica daughter see yuh she say you not coming back around here and mi tell har dat is not true. Mi will glad fi go tell har dat mi see you," he said. ...
Their caption:
Mixed bag
Location: Singapore
Spotted by: Ted Higgs
I'm leaning more toward Lunchlady Doris from The Simpsons:
"More testicles mean more iron!"
Clarkson on: drinking
At home, I have a pair of Sega Rally arcade machines on which two people can race a Lancia Delta Integrale or a Toyota Celica GT4 on a choice of rally circuits. They were very cutting-edge 10 years ago, and in various Northern airport terminals, I note they still are.
Obviously, because I have them at home and because it costs nothing to have a go, I am very brilliant. I guarantee I could beat you, even if you are eight, or if you actually designed the coded software that allows the true expert to convert their cars from four- to much faster rear-wheel drive. And in case you don't believe me, my top 10 times sit on the memory chip like the grouping on a sharpshooter's target. The top eight are identical. The next two are off by just a thousandth of a second.
Here's the funny thing, though. If I have a go after drinking just one small glass of wine, I can't even get close to my best score. I'm way off, sometimes by as much as two tenths.
It's odd. Drinking one small glass of wine does not make me feel different in any way. I can touch my nose, get all the way through ‘Peter Piper' and balance on one foot easily. Even our fanatically bossy government agrees. But the Sega experiment shows that even a pipette of booze affects, noticeably, the reactions of a fully grown, sixteen-stone man.
After two bottles of wine, and some sloe vodka, I'm all over the place. Once, I was so drunk that I was nearly half a second off the pace. And on another occasion, on the forest stage, I actually fell asleep. And so, you should be in no doubt - especially as this is a BBC website, and the BBC gets criticised for everything these days - I am not for a moment going to suggest that booze doesn't affect our ability to drive. It does....
At home, I have a pair of Sega Rally arcade machines on which two people can race a Lancia Delta Integrale or a Toyota Celica GT4 on a choice of rally circuits. They were very cutting-edge 10 years ago, and in various Northern airport terminals, I note they still are.
Obviously, because I have them at home and because it costs nothing to have a go, I am very brilliant. I guarantee I could beat you, even if you are eight, or if you actually designed the coded software that allows the true expert to convert their cars from four- to much faster rear-wheel drive. And in case you don't believe me, my top 10 times sit on the memory chip like the grouping on a sharpshooter's target. The top eight are identical. The next two are off by just a thousandth of a second.
Here's the funny thing, though. If I have a go after drinking just one small glass of wine, I can't even get close to my best score. I'm way off, sometimes by as much as two tenths.
It's odd. Drinking one small glass of wine does not make me feel different in any way. I can touch my nose, get all the way through ‘Peter Piper' and balance on one foot easily. Even our fanatically bossy government agrees. But the Sega experiment shows that even a pipette of booze affects, noticeably, the reactions of a fully grown, sixteen-stone man.
After two bottles of wine, and some sloe vodka, I'm all over the place. Once, I was so drunk that I was nearly half a second off the pace. And on another occasion, on the forest stage, I actually fell asleep. And so, you should be in no doubt - especially as this is a BBC website, and the BBC gets criticised for everything these days - I am not for a moment going to suggest that booze doesn't affect our ability to drive. It does....
They make the best face powder (Natural Shimmer) I've ever used. The compact's cool, too. It most effectively covers a multitude of sins (and dark circles and zits and red bits), and the stuff wears like iron. It doesn't need re-application after I blow my nose FFS. Its shimmer is subtle enough for day wear & square chicks, and it's buildable w/o turning trashy. Adding another layer makes it more shimmery, but it's never overpowering.
I love getting some on my fingertips so I can play with it. It's so smooth and silky - it feels like magic.
I love getting some on my fingertips so I can play with it. It's so smooth and silky - it feels like magic.
They make the second best face powder (Sparkle Light) I've ever used. It feels even more like magic than StarGazer's - even more silky & smooth. It's even more sparkly too, but the coverage isn't anywhere near as good nor is it as long-lasting.
It's a great highlighter, too. That particular shade can act like a psychotic highlighter on the end of your nose if you aren't careful, though. It made the tip of my nose look like the Great Pyramid, which it certainly does not resemble!
It's a great highlighter, too. That particular shade can act like a psychotic highlighter on the end of your nose if you aren't careful, though. It made the tip of my nose look like the Great Pyramid, which it certainly does not resemble!
They nicked that from dear Gore Vidal, they did.
My mind insists it's an icicle radish. Yum!
om nom nom nom
How to cut tuition fees
We should teach only the useful stuff: scavenging, strangling and how to operate a water cannon
Charlie Brooker
Monday 20 December 2010
You can't put a price on a good education. Except, actually, you can – and it turns out that price is just over £9,000 a year.
Unsurprisingly many students are furious at the hike in tuition fees; but apart from shouting about it or trying to smash the Treasury to bits with sticks, what practical steps can we take to make education more affordable?
Nine thousand pounds a year sounds like a lot – but actually, it's shitloads. Yet it turns out that if you divide shitloads by 52, it comes out at around £173 a week, which sounds more achievable. Especially if your course only lasts seven days. So let's only provide week-long courses.
Obviously, to compress a three-year course into one week, the field of study will have to be streamlined a bit. Whittled down. Reduced to a series of bullet points. But in many cases, that's an advantage. ...
We should teach only the useful stuff: scavenging, strangling and how to operate a water cannon
Charlie Brooker
Monday 20 December 2010
You can't put a price on a good education. Except, actually, you can – and it turns out that price is just over £9,000 a year.
Unsurprisingly many students are furious at the hike in tuition fees; but apart from shouting about it or trying to smash the Treasury to bits with sticks, what practical steps can we take to make education more affordable?
Nine thousand pounds a year sounds like a lot – but actually, it's shitloads. Yet it turns out that if you divide shitloads by 52, it comes out at around £173 a week, which sounds more achievable. Especially if your course only lasts seven days. So let's only provide week-long courses.
Obviously, to compress a three-year course into one week, the field of study will have to be streamlined a bit. Whittled down. Reduced to a series of bullet points. But in many cases, that's an advantage. ...
see more Hacked IRL - Truth in Sarcasm
Jus' hold mah beer 'n' watch thi-yis! Ah'm gonna tayke that thar bri-yidge!
So 2010 has slithered past, leaving a gooey trail of memories in its wake. As befits the opening page of a new decade, it was a year with a markedly transitional feel. A tainted old era full of Gordon Brown and Big Brother came to an end, paving the way for a fresh haul of new, improved bullshit. ...
British wildlife photographer Richard Costin managed to get these shots of a Golden Eagle and a White Tailed Eagle scrapping over a dead fox in northern Norway....
Waves from Lake Erie crash onto Cleveland Harbour West Pierhead Lighthouse as the subzero air temperature causes the water to freeze in multiple layers, coating the entire structure in ice and making it virtually impossible for mariners to see the light
Heidi the cross-eyed opossum sticks out her tongue at the zoo in Leipzig, Germany
Antlerman REVEALED
December 17th, 2010
More than one person has written in asking about the bike-rider character from Comic #684! Well, his name is Malfidactus O’Rourke and he is originally from Duluth. He has a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and he plays racquetball when he can find a partner who likes to go early on weekdays. He lives in a two-bedroom townhouse just outside of Chicago and he recently had a terrible, terrible hunting accident.
December 17th, 2010
More than one person has written in asking about the bike-rider character from Comic #684! Well, his name is Malfidactus O’Rourke and he is originally from Duluth. He has a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and he plays racquetball when he can find a partner who likes to go early on weekdays. He lives in a two-bedroom townhouse just outside of Chicago and he recently had a terrible, terrible hunting accident.
I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas
1953
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do
Don't want a doll, no dinky Tinker Toy
I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
I don't think Santa Claus will mind, do you?
He won't have to use our dirty chimney flue
Just bring him through the front door, that's the easy thing to do
I can see me now on Christmas morning, creeping down the stairs
Oh what joy and what surprise when I open up my eyes
To see a hippo hero standing there
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do
No crocodiles, no rhinoceroses
I only like hippopotamuses
And hippopotamuses like me too
Mom says the hippo would eat me up, but then
Teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian
There's lots of room for him in our two-car garage
I'd feed him there and wash him there and give him his massage
I can see me now on Christmas morning, creeping down the stairs
Oh what joy and what surprise when I open up my eyes
To see a hippo hero standing there
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do
No crocodiles or rhinoceroseses
I only like hippopotamuseses
And hippopotamuses like me too!
1953
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do
Don't want a doll, no dinky Tinker Toy
I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
I don't think Santa Claus will mind, do you?
He won't have to use our dirty chimney flue
Just bring him through the front door, that's the easy thing to do
I can see me now on Christmas morning, creeping down the stairs
Oh what joy and what surprise when I open up my eyes
To see a hippo hero standing there
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do
No crocodiles, no rhinoceroses
I only like hippopotamuses
And hippopotamuses like me too
Mom says the hippo would eat me up, but then
Teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian
There's lots of room for him in our two-car garage
I'd feed him there and wash him there and give him his massage
I can see me now on Christmas morning, creeping down the stairs
Oh what joy and what surprise when I open up my eyes
To see a hippo hero standing there
I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do
No crocodiles or rhinoceroseses
I only like hippopotamuseses
And hippopotamuses like me too!
I just knew their caption'd have to be "Bob's your Uncle."
Our hot dogs are now nearly rectum-free!
Their caption:
Let's hope she doesn't mind
Location: Edinburgh
Spotted by: Char Sevil
see more So Much Pun
Man, now I’m going to spend all day wondering what an HTML guitar solo sounds like… – Matty Malaprop
Don't burn down the office just yet! Plug in the USB Stress Ball, squeeze it, and watch that unwanted email quiver in pain, begging for mercy. We promise it will make you more productive and less stabby.
Tired of having eight different bosses? TPS Reports got you down? There's a lot of stress in today's world and if you don't cope with it somehow, you're gonna just up and die one day. Or snap and burn down the building. We'd really prefer to keep you alive and preferably at least with a modicum of sanity left, so how's about we offer you this great alternative to going guano insane? ...
Tired of having eight different bosses? TPS Reports got you down? There's a lot of stress in today's world and if you don't cope with it somehow, you're gonna just up and die one day. Or snap and burn down the building. We'd really prefer to keep you alive and preferably at least with a modicum of sanity left, so how's about we offer you this great alternative to going guano insane? ...
... Connect this exact replica of the communicator from "The Original Series" to your computer and enjoy the classic "chirp" sound when it's flipped open. It also plays 21 other sounds effects when not being used to chat with your Starfleet friends via Skype, MSN, AIM, or iChat. ...
... Rechargeable batteries are great! They power all our favorite gadgets. Without them, we'd be tossing all these alkaline batteries and their caustic chemicals back into the environment, and that's a recipe for bad times.
The problem with rechargeables is the myriad plugs, ports, sockets and bays you need to have around to keep them filled with electrons. Oh, the battery's dead, but where's that dang recharger? Sound familiar? Then, one day, an enterprising geek built the charger into the battery. Not just any charger, mind you. They used a standard USB port built right into the battery.
Now, when your batteries are flatlining, pop the cap, and jam 'em into your nearest ubiquitous USB port. Whether it's on your computer, laptop, monitor or powered USB hub, all you need is 250mA of juice from your universal serial bus, and a little patience. In just a few hours, you'll have 1300mAH of power! ...
The problem with rechargeables is the myriad plugs, ports, sockets and bays you need to have around to keep them filled with electrons. Oh, the battery's dead, but where's that dang recharger? Sound familiar? Then, one day, an enterprising geek built the charger into the battery. Not just any charger, mind you. They used a standard USB port built right into the battery.
Now, when your batteries are flatlining, pop the cap, and jam 'em into your nearest ubiquitous USB port. Whether it's on your computer, laptop, monitor or powered USB hub, all you need is 250mA of juice from your universal serial bus, and a little patience. In just a few hours, you'll have 1300mAH of power! ...
... Sure there are urban legends about alligators inhabiting the New York sewers, but nobody ever talks about the more imminent problem of the subway squid. You put some uncooked calamari down the drain, and, next thing you know, there's a giant betentacled obstacle hanging out on the tracks. You know what kind of delay that causes? And, what? Because you didn't want a little ika nigiri? *shakes head in disappointment*
Cephalopods make us happy. According to Wikipedia, "Some cephalopods are able to fly distances up to 50 m." Fly. Through the air. As in, "It's a bird. It's a plane. It's a flying squid." We, for one, welcome our new betentacled masters. ...
... This might not be Hello Kitty. It might be Goodbye Kitty. We cannot possibly know without observing, and then we change the outcome. ...
... Note: Don't want to have to explain this shirt to strangers? Fear no more! We now have free Schrödinger's Cat Pocket Cards to go with your shirt.
They're perfect to print out and keep in your wallet so you can hand them out and make your escape while said strangers are busy reading.
... Note: Don't want to have to explain this shirt to strangers? Fear no more! We now have free Schrödinger's Cat Pocket Cards to go with your shirt.
They're perfect to print out and keep in your wallet so you can hand them out and make your escape while said strangers are busy reading.
Delay and disturbance in St Catherine
Published: Tuesday | December 7, 2010
.... I looked across at the car beside mine. It was a taxi packed with at least eight passengers who, by the looks of it, were not too pleased with the prospects of having to spend added time in the embrace of strangers.
"Ah wah dis man? Is who ah run dis ting yah?" yelled a woman in dark glasses. She was sitting in the back of the car with her head out the window to make room for a tall fellow in a wide-brimmed hat sitting next to her.
The driver of the taxi, a stout, bald man wearing several large gold rings, hopped out of the car. He had a towel thrown over his right shoulder.
"Oy man! Yuh nuh have no sense?" he yelled, gesticulating wildly. I looked behind me to see who he was talking to.
It was the flag man who had let us through earlier.
"Man, who yuh ah talk to?" the man with the flag replied.
"Den nuh you ah di only idiot on yah?" was the taxi driver's clever reply. "How yuh fi leggo di line when yuh see cyar ah come?" he added. "Ah you cause all ah dis yuh know."
The flag man was not amused.
"Yeah man, cause ah me name gad [god]. Ah must me name gad. Every problem weh happen inna di world ah me cause it," he yelled.
The driver of the minibus ahead of me also got out. He looked up and down the road, then at the flag man. "Yuh is a real clown. Yuh head mussi full ah water. Dis mek sense to yuh?" he said. By now, men wearing long-sleeved shirts and hard hats had appeared. They seemed to have been searching for a solution. One of them, a slender, young man sought forgiveness for the persecuted flag man.
"Sir please, calm down. Please. We'll get you going again soon," he said to the taxi driver. But the masses, now sufficiently peeved, were not about to let the flag man off so easily.
The driver and passengers in the car behind mine, got into the action.
"Yuh know is a simple work. Not even dat yuh can't manage?" said the driver, an elderly man with uncombed hair.
"Man, tap [stop] yuh noise! Yuh know me?" the flag man yelled.
But the mob was only getting larger, and angrier by the second. "Fire him!" "Him fi go shovel stone!" "Mek him go chuck off inna di river!" They yelled with fury. I looked over at the flag man who, I could tell, was about to blow a fuse.
"Yow, mi ah 40 yuh know? Yuh know wah kinda man me be? Mine mi get vile yuh know!" he yelled. I rolled up my windows.
The woman wearing glasses in the car beside me could take no more. She jumped out of the vehicle.
"Man, why yuh nuh tek off di hat? Di hat ah tek up more space dan people!" she yelled to the man who was sitting beside her.
The offending hat-wearer looked her up and down.
"Fi yuh wig in yah inna mi face and ah tickle mi nose, but yuh nuh hear mi ah complain though. Shet up yuh mouth and come back inna di cyar!" he shouted.
The woman hissed. Meanwhile, the flag man was getting more upset and yelling things I've only heard in violent gangster movies.
I locked my doors....
Wonder no more why I rarely visited Kingston and its environs.
Their caption:
They're the dog's
Location: Lafayette, Indiana
Spotted by: Glyn Garside
Their caption:
Rear wheel drive
Location: Dortmund, Germany
Their caption:
Ger crazy
Location: Gobi Tours Ger Camp, Mongolia
Spotted by: Jay Selley
Spotted by: Vojo Mihajloski
#681; Ill-thought-out Melon-thievery
He'd gotten halfway to the market before the swelling started up again. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'let's see if I can still pull this off.' He couldn't -- either the plan or, later, at home, his pants.
He'd gotten halfway to the market before the swelling started up again. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'let's see if I can still pull this off.' He couldn't -- either the plan or, later, at home, his pants.
Their caption:
Camping is nuts
Location: New Forest
Spotted by: Tony Smith
Their caption:
Crow bar
Location: Porto Covo, Portugal
Spotted by: Aaron Wilson
Their caption:
Razing the standard
Location: Oman
Spotted by: Dennis James
Their caption:
Super-resuscitate me
Location: Florida
Spotted by: Richard Barker
Westboro protesters face jeers and slashed tires
By MANNY GAMALLO World Staff Writer
Published: 11/14/2010
McALESTER - Members of a Kansas church that protests at military funerals may have found themselves in the wrong town Saturday.
Shortly after finishing their protest at the funeral of Army Sgt. Jason James McCluskey of McAlester, a half-dozen protesters from Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan., headed to their minivan, only to discover that its front and rear passenger-side tires had been slashed.
To make matters worse, as their minivan slowly hobbled away on two flat tires, with a McAlester police car following behind, the protesters were unable to find anyone in town who would repair their vehicle, according to police.
The minivan finally pulled over several blocks away in a shopping center parking lot, where AAA was called. A flatbed service truck arrived and loaded up the minivan. Assistant Police Chief Darrell Miller said the minivan was taken to Walmart for repairs.
Even before the protesters discovered their damaged tires, they faced off with a massive crowd of jeering and taunting counterprotesters at Third Street and Washington Avenue, two blocks from the First Baptist Church, where the soldier's funeral was held.
Miller estimated that crowd to number nearly 1,000 people, and they not only drowned out the
Westboro protesters with jeers, but with raucous chants of "USA, USA."
A few motorcyclists interspersed among the crowd also revved up their engines to muffle the protests.
More than two dozen law-enforcement officers - state troopers, sheriff's deputies and city police - formed a security cordon around the Westboro protesters.
"We're here to protect everyone," Miller said.
Westboro members picket military funerals across the country, spreading their message that "God hates America" because it tolerates homosexuality.
Ta much, dear Anneliese
By MANNY GAMALLO World Staff Writer
Published: 11/14/2010
McALESTER - Members of a Kansas church that protests at military funerals may have found themselves in the wrong town Saturday.
Shortly after finishing their protest at the funeral of Army Sgt. Jason James McCluskey of McAlester, a half-dozen protesters from Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan., headed to their minivan, only to discover that its front and rear passenger-side tires had been slashed.
To make matters worse, as their minivan slowly hobbled away on two flat tires, with a McAlester police car following behind, the protesters were unable to find anyone in town who would repair their vehicle, according to police.
The minivan finally pulled over several blocks away in a shopping center parking lot, where AAA was called. A flatbed service truck arrived and loaded up the minivan. Assistant Police Chief Darrell Miller said the minivan was taken to Walmart for repairs.
Even before the protesters discovered their damaged tires, they faced off with a massive crowd of jeering and taunting counterprotesters at Third Street and Washington Avenue, two blocks from the First Baptist Church, where the soldier's funeral was held.
Miller estimated that crowd to number nearly 1,000 people, and they not only drowned out the
Westboro protesters with jeers, but with raucous chants of "USA, USA."
A few motorcyclists interspersed among the crowd also revved up their engines to muffle the protests.
More than two dozen law-enforcement officers - state troopers, sheriff's deputies and city police - formed a security cordon around the Westboro protesters.
"We're here to protect everyone," Miller said.
Westboro members picket military funerals across the country, spreading their message that "God hates America" because it tolerates homosexuality.
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Every technological advance presents a new set of challenges for mankind to adapt to, and the rise of social networking is no exception. Now one of the commonest pitfalls associated with websites like Facebook and Twitter can be avoided thanks to a new tool that prevents users from logging on when they have had a bit too much to drink.
US-based company Webroot has developed a 'Social Media Sobriety Test', which comes as a free plug-in for Firefox web browsers. It works by refusing users access to certain websites until they have passed a number of co-ordination tests to prove that they are sober.
The aim is to prevent the kind of drunken emailing and messaging that can cause as much misery as a hangover the morning after the night before....
US-based company Webroot has developed a 'Social Media Sobriety Test', which comes as a free plug-in for Firefox web browsers. It works by refusing users access to certain websites until they have passed a number of co-ordination tests to prove that they are sober.
The aim is to prevent the kind of drunken emailing and messaging that can cause as much misery as a hangover the morning after the night before....
Nothing good happens online after 1am. And since Webroot believes in protecting you in every aspect of your life, including your social media, we've created the Social Media Sobriety Test. Put an end to the embarrassment that follows regrettable, late night posts with 3 easy steps.
Ta much, dear Edosan
A friend of mine recently went home with a young woman after a party. However, before he, you know, got down to business, he went to use her toilet and spotted Britney Spears's perfume in her bathroom. He promptly made his excuses and left. Was that unreasonable? And what are other similar style deal-breakers?
Dave, by email
Your query with regard to the reasonableness or otherwise of your friend's swift exit can be quickly resolved. Simply put, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a grown woman in possession of a celebrity perfume must be in want of some psychological help. "Your friend", Dave, was reasonable and wise.
With regard to the latter issue, ah me. It's so tricky, isn't it? Life, I mean. At last, you meet someone at a party who doesn't want to make you bite off your own arm to give you an excuse to leave. You go home with them, and what is about to happen starts to happen – only for you to realise that their carefully chosen mood-assisting album is The Greatest Hits of Kasabian.
Oh sure, there are the danger signs to look out for on arrival in the house of a new encounter: posters of the Third Reich, a Ku Klux Klan hood hanging on a coat hook, books by Jeremy Clarkson – but these are obvious. It's the little things that really count. After all, as anyone who's been in a relationship knows, few end because of the dramatic discovery of a secret love child; most die because of a fight over why one of you forgot to buy lightbulbs.
Few details speak as loudly as someone's style choices because, superficial as they may seem, they are what your inamorata or inamorato elects to wear all day. Hence, they are actually more indicative of a person's true self than the books on their shelves, of which 35% were gifts from other people, 10% were freebies, 25% were bought just for show, and 85% are unread. (Incidentally, according to a recent scientific survey, the current book to flaunt for pulling purposes is Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. Seriously, only one in 17 of the people you see carrying that book around town are actually reading it. Fact.)
Now, in some ways your question surprises me, Dave, because I'd have thought the fashion warning signs would be obvious. Of course, having said that, if they were as clear to everyone as they are to those of us with a professional eye, no man would ever wear Ugg boots.
So, in a handy cut-out-and-keep guide, here is Ask Hadley's list of What Not To Have In Your Wardrobe For The Good Of The Perpetuation Of The Human Species: ...
Dave, by email
Your query with regard to the reasonableness or otherwise of your friend's swift exit can be quickly resolved. Simply put, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a grown woman in possession of a celebrity perfume must be in want of some psychological help. "Your friend", Dave, was reasonable and wise.
With regard to the latter issue, ah me. It's so tricky, isn't it? Life, I mean. At last, you meet someone at a party who doesn't want to make you bite off your own arm to give you an excuse to leave. You go home with them, and what is about to happen starts to happen – only for you to realise that their carefully chosen mood-assisting album is The Greatest Hits of Kasabian.
Oh sure, there are the danger signs to look out for on arrival in the house of a new encounter: posters of the Third Reich, a Ku Klux Klan hood hanging on a coat hook, books by Jeremy Clarkson – but these are obvious. It's the little things that really count. After all, as anyone who's been in a relationship knows, few end because of the dramatic discovery of a secret love child; most die because of a fight over why one of you forgot to buy lightbulbs.
Few details speak as loudly as someone's style choices because, superficial as they may seem, they are what your inamorata or inamorato elects to wear all day. Hence, they are actually more indicative of a person's true self than the books on their shelves, of which 35% were gifts from other people, 10% were freebies, 25% were bought just for show, and 85% are unread. (Incidentally, according to a recent scientific survey, the current book to flaunt for pulling purposes is Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. Seriously, only one in 17 of the people you see carrying that book around town are actually reading it. Fact.)
Now, in some ways your question surprises me, Dave, because I'd have thought the fashion warning signs would be obvious. Of course, having said that, if they were as clear to everyone as they are to those of us with a professional eye, no man would ever wear Ugg boots.
So, in a handy cut-out-and-keep guide, here is Ask Hadley's list of What Not To Have In Your Wardrobe For The Good Of The Perpetuation Of The Human Species: ...
Movie Review
A Quiet Place in the Country (1969)
August 29, 1970
Screen: Italian Chiller:'Quiet Place' Is on View at the 72d Street
By HOWARD THOMPSON
Published: August 29, 1970
Don't be fooled by those ads for "A Quiet Place in the Country," showing a wicked-looking pair of scissors and the heads of Vanessa Redgrave and Franco Nero, with promises of "nymphomania, necrophilia, fetishism, sadomasochism." The flavoring is accurate. But this is only the visible tip of the iceberg in the bizarre and brilliantly wrought study of encroaching madness that opened yesterday at the 72d Street Playhouse.
This Italian-made color film, if you stay with it on its own terms, will absolutely nail you to the seat. And the real star is neither Miss Redgrave nor Mr. Franco, in this European follow-up of their "Camelot" pairing. It is the extraordinary directorial hand of Elio Petri. The co-scenarist is best-known here for "The Tenth Victim," "High Infidelity" and an interesting, short-lived exercise titled "We Still Kill the Old Way."
Stay with this new one. It opens on the Milanese lovenest of a renowned pop-artist, a monosyllabic, withdrawn man whose agent-mistress indulges him by renting the artist a "quiet place in the country" for work. The picture slips into second gear with the moody artist roaming the premises of the lonely villa, psychotically obsessed with the case history of a departed tenant, a notorious, wanton girl. And in third gear, the picture visually hurtles and roars to a climax of complete logic and conviction, blending real and unreal images that will curl your hair.
The total effect is devastating....
A Quiet Place in the Country (1969)
August 29, 1970
Screen: Italian Chiller:'Quiet Place' Is on View at the 72d Street
By HOWARD THOMPSON
Published: August 29, 1970
Don't be fooled by those ads for "A Quiet Place in the Country," showing a wicked-looking pair of scissors and the heads of Vanessa Redgrave and Franco Nero, with promises of "nymphomania, necrophilia, fetishism, sadomasochism." The flavoring is accurate. But this is only the visible tip of the iceberg in the bizarre and brilliantly wrought study of encroaching madness that opened yesterday at the 72d Street Playhouse.
This Italian-made color film, if you stay with it on its own terms, will absolutely nail you to the seat. And the real star is neither Miss Redgrave nor Mr. Franco, in this European follow-up of their "Camelot" pairing. It is the extraordinary directorial hand of Elio Petri. The co-scenarist is best-known here for "The Tenth Victim," "High Infidelity" and an interesting, short-lived exercise titled "We Still Kill the Old Way."
Stay with this new one. It opens on the Milanese lovenest of a renowned pop-artist, a monosyllabic, withdrawn man whose agent-mistress indulges him by renting the artist a "quiet place in the country" for work. The picture slips into second gear with the moody artist roaming the premises of the lonely villa, psychotically obsessed with the case history of a departed tenant, a notorious, wanton girl. And in third gear, the picture visually hurtles and roars to a climax of complete logic and conviction, blending real and unreal images that will curl your hair.
The total effect is devastating....
[He's merely airbrushed her with red paint, I swear it, but that whole scene's pretty goddam freaky anyway.]
A great way to join the fine Mexican tradition of celebrating death with lively commemorations using bright colors in food, flower and costumes. Our 3-D Skull Pan cake transforms into a beautiful mask covered with white fondant and “painted” with icing colors and Gold Pearl Dust. Let parties begin.
I have come down with a sneezy sort of cold. I managed to rally enough on Sunday to make this cinnamon swirl cake. It's from a mix and I added some extra fancy cinnamon which was given to me by Cinnamon (thanks again!). The results: I can report that one boxed mix will make plenty of cake to fill both sides of the skull cake pan. Tastewise, however, you're better off making a coffee cake from scratch, if you have the energy. And now I'm going back to bed where I can be pitiful and feel sorry for myself while eating cake. ...
Their caption:
Balls up
Location: Asda, Southampton
Spotted by: Amit Sultaniya
Looks much more like a woodcock, but I'm in a charitable mood: it's Halloween!
The Story Gains a Villain (Kind of)
October 28th, 2010
Wow. It’s been an ingranzzible week. (Still have to make up new words to express this properly.)
[Our book] Machine of Death rose to #1 on Amazon and stayed there for over twenty-four hours. We accomplished everything we set out to do. Agents, publishers, retailers, distributors, well-wishers and the press have been flooding our email inbox. I can’t stress this enough: It worked. We won!
Once we hit #1, I called an agent I’ve worked with in the past — one who’d tried to sell MOD before but just couldn’t find anyone who wanted it — and he sprung instantly into action. Doors that were once closed started positively flying open before us. Although some big publishers have now approached us about buying the rights and doing a new edition of the book, we have declined. That ship has sailed. We are the publisher.
We also realized that we had an opportunity here to gain a level. We could have struck a deal with a publisher, potentially even a lucrative one, that would have been nice in the short term and could probably have led to interesting places. But we have larger goals than just signing a book deal, and we realized we could play the long game here, not just for our benefit — but for the benefit of our friends and colleagues in webcomics as well.
And so in the last few days, using resources offered to us that previously would have been absolutely inconceivable, we have laid the groundwork for a complex but amazing publishing/distribution structure that, in the future, should hopefully allow us to get not just Machine of Death, but also all TopatoCo-published and TopatoCo-partnered books into regular bookstore/retail channels, both in the U.S. and abroad. Ryan, Matt and I are harnessing this amazing rising flood-tide to lift all the boats we can find, all the ropes we managed to grab hold of when the waters hit.
Much has yet to be settled on this front, so I will simply say it remains a carefully considered work-in-progress and I expect to make more important announcements about this in time.
And something else kind of incredible has happened as well! We didn’t know it, but apparently Tuesday was also the launch date for Glenn Beck’s new book, Broke. Our book at #1 (as well as Keith Richards’ autobiography at #2) prevented him from claiming the top spot, and so he called us out on his radio program Wednesday. Here’s the audio (about 3 minutes long), or if you like, there’s a transcription over on the MOD site.
If you don’t want to listen, here’s the executive summary: (a) His book is supposed to be #1. (b) The fact that it’s not, but ours is, is evidence of a liberal “culture of death” that is threatening to take over America and destroy everything sensible folks hold dear, a menace that can presumably only be stemmed by folks buying his book and making it #1.
Let me contextualize this for you, in the form of a parable in which all of the details are true.
A young entrepreneur, the son of a self-made immigrant small-business owner (a God-fearing Protestant who’d married a girl from a family of missionaries), had a crazy pie-in-the-sky idea. Having learned the rudiments of business by working since he was small in the family store, he struck out after his goal, investing himself into something he really believed in, inspiring both colleagues and strangers to join his cause even as “big business” slammed door after door in his face. For years he toiled long into the night, gradually growing his own small business by being as honest, kind and creative as he could manage. Ultimately, in a tremendous Rudy-like moment, he and his ragtag band of reg’lar folks — for one glorious day — accidentally made the twelfth book by the multimillionaire host of “the third-most-listened-to show in all of America” debut at #3 on one single bookseller’s list, rather than at #1.
I guess I can see his point! I am clearly the bad guy here. Part of “a culture of death” that “celebrates the things that have destroyed us.”
Now, listen. I honestly don’t begrudge Mr. Beck his book’s success. As Ryan put it, he asked his audience to buy his book, and they did! It’s the same thing we did, only his audience is bigger. His priority is selling books by any means necessary, and if we were a handy (if nonsensical) scapegoat, then that’s business. Like Ryan, I just think it’s tremendously funny that he got upset when all we did was bumble past him on our own merry way!
MOD is still under $10 on Amazon if you’re interested in joining the culture of death! I promise that every new sale is another tiny pea beneath Glenn Beck’s many mattresses. ...
October 28th, 2010
Wow. It’s been an ingranzzible week. (Still have to make up new words to express this properly.)
[Our book] Machine of Death rose to #1 on Amazon and stayed there for over twenty-four hours. We accomplished everything we set out to do. Agents, publishers, retailers, distributors, well-wishers and the press have been flooding our email inbox. I can’t stress this enough: It worked. We won!
Once we hit #1, I called an agent I’ve worked with in the past — one who’d tried to sell MOD before but just couldn’t find anyone who wanted it — and he sprung instantly into action. Doors that were once closed started positively flying open before us. Although some big publishers have now approached us about buying the rights and doing a new edition of the book, we have declined. That ship has sailed. We are the publisher.
We also realized that we had an opportunity here to gain a level. We could have struck a deal with a publisher, potentially even a lucrative one, that would have been nice in the short term and could probably have led to interesting places. But we have larger goals than just signing a book deal, and we realized we could play the long game here, not just for our benefit — but for the benefit of our friends and colleagues in webcomics as well.
And so in the last few days, using resources offered to us that previously would have been absolutely inconceivable, we have laid the groundwork for a complex but amazing publishing/distribution structure that, in the future, should hopefully allow us to get not just Machine of Death, but also all TopatoCo-published and TopatoCo-partnered books into regular bookstore/retail channels, both in the U.S. and abroad. Ryan, Matt and I are harnessing this amazing rising flood-tide to lift all the boats we can find, all the ropes we managed to grab hold of when the waters hit.
Much has yet to be settled on this front, so I will simply say it remains a carefully considered work-in-progress and I expect to make more important announcements about this in time.
And something else kind of incredible has happened as well! We didn’t know it, but apparently Tuesday was also the launch date for Glenn Beck’s new book, Broke. Our book at #1 (as well as Keith Richards’ autobiography at #2) prevented him from claiming the top spot, and so he called us out on his radio program Wednesday. Here’s the audio (about 3 minutes long), or if you like, there’s a transcription over on the MOD site.
If you don’t want to listen, here’s the executive summary: (a) His book is supposed to be #1. (b) The fact that it’s not, but ours is, is evidence of a liberal “culture of death” that is threatening to take over America and destroy everything sensible folks hold dear, a menace that can presumably only be stemmed by folks buying his book and making it #1.
Let me contextualize this for you, in the form of a parable in which all of the details are true.
A young entrepreneur, the son of a self-made immigrant small-business owner (a God-fearing Protestant who’d married a girl from a family of missionaries), had a crazy pie-in-the-sky idea. Having learned the rudiments of business by working since he was small in the family store, he struck out after his goal, investing himself into something he really believed in, inspiring both colleagues and strangers to join his cause even as “big business” slammed door after door in his face. For years he toiled long into the night, gradually growing his own small business by being as honest, kind and creative as he could manage. Ultimately, in a tremendous Rudy-like moment, he and his ragtag band of reg’lar folks — for one glorious day — accidentally made the twelfth book by the multimillionaire host of “the third-most-listened-to show in all of America” debut at #3 on one single bookseller’s list, rather than at #1.
I guess I can see his point! I am clearly the bad guy here. Part of “a culture of death” that “celebrates the things that have destroyed us.”
Now, listen. I honestly don’t begrudge Mr. Beck his book’s success. As Ryan put it, he asked his audience to buy his book, and they did! It’s the same thing we did, only his audience is bigger. His priority is selling books by any means necessary, and if we were a handy (if nonsensical) scapegoat, then that’s business. Like Ryan, I just think it’s tremendously funny that he got upset when all we did was bumble past him on our own merry way!
MOD is still under $10 on Amazon if you’re interested in joining the culture of death! I promise that every new sale is another tiny pea beneath Glenn Beck’s many mattresses. ...
Wymering Manor - The Oldest House in Portsmouth
8th February 2006
Wymering Manor and the church of St. Peter and St. Paul are the oldest house and the oldest church (with St. Thomas’s Cathedral) in Portsmouth. There is record of a Saxon building on the site of the manor in 1047, perhaps where there had once been a Roman villa. The Wymering Manor Estate, one of the oldest manors in Hampshire through which the main south coast road runs, stretched across to Cosham and onto Portsea Island and encompassed much of what to-day is Hilsea. At the time of the Domesday survey, Wymering Manor, with lands in Cosham and Portchester, belonged to the Crown. By 1167 the King had granted the Manor to the Albermarle Family. The earl lived here, and on his death the manor reverted to the crown. Edward I gave it to his mother Eleanor, who in 1260 exchanged it for lands at Ringwood. In 1595 Wymering Manor became the property of the Wayte family; whose name was given to a street in the nearby village of Cosham.
The present Manor and the Vicarage date from the seventeenth century. Richard Norton, Cromwell’’s ‘Mad Dick’ who signed King Charles !’s death warrant lived here then. The Manor belonged to the Bruning family who were Roman Catholics. Curious features of the house are the two ‘priest-holes’ or hiding places and a small square window looking along the coast road to the west. Dr. William Smith, physician to the Portsmouth Garrison and founder of Portsmouth Grammar School lived in the house in 1732. In 1821 Thomas Gosling sold the house to Thomas Thistlethwayte of Southwick, still an estate village north of Portsdown Hill. In 1860 a Catholic religious order, the Brotherhood of St. Augustine and the Sisterhood of St. Mary, founded in London, occupied the manor and vicarage. They departed in 1872. In 1899 the family of Thomas Knowsley Parr, a descendent of Catharine Parr, the sixth wife of King Henry VIII moved to Wymering Manor from Bold Hall, Lancashire, which had been demolished for a coal mine. Many fine architectural features such as the sweeping double staircase with its barleysugar twist balusters and gallery were rescued and installed in Wymering Manor. The Manor’s half-H plan was filled in the nineteenth or twentieth century. In the 1930s Mr. Metcalfe, the last private owner, who was a designer for Airspeed, set up lathes in what had been the magnificent early nineteenth century drawing room. Neville Shute the novelist, who celebrated his work for Airspeed on Portsmouth airport in his novel Slide Rule, and the famous solo pilot Amy Johnson both came here at that time. ...
8th February 2006
Wymering Manor and the church of St. Peter and St. Paul are the oldest house and the oldest church (with St. Thomas’s Cathedral) in Portsmouth. There is record of a Saxon building on the site of the manor in 1047, perhaps where there had once been a Roman villa. The Wymering Manor Estate, one of the oldest manors in Hampshire through which the main south coast road runs, stretched across to Cosham and onto Portsea Island and encompassed much of what to-day is Hilsea. At the time of the Domesday survey, Wymering Manor, with lands in Cosham and Portchester, belonged to the Crown. By 1167 the King had granted the Manor to the Albermarle Family. The earl lived here, and on his death the manor reverted to the crown. Edward I gave it to his mother Eleanor, who in 1260 exchanged it for lands at Ringwood. In 1595 Wymering Manor became the property of the Wayte family; whose name was given to a street in the nearby village of Cosham.
The present Manor and the Vicarage date from the seventeenth century. Richard Norton, Cromwell’’s ‘Mad Dick’ who signed King Charles !’s death warrant lived here then. The Manor belonged to the Bruning family who were Roman Catholics. Curious features of the house are the two ‘priest-holes’ or hiding places and a small square window looking along the coast road to the west. Dr. William Smith, physician to the Portsmouth Garrison and founder of Portsmouth Grammar School lived in the house in 1732. In 1821 Thomas Gosling sold the house to Thomas Thistlethwayte of Southwick, still an estate village north of Portsdown Hill. In 1860 a Catholic religious order, the Brotherhood of St. Augustine and the Sisterhood of St. Mary, founded in London, occupied the manor and vicarage. They departed in 1872. In 1899 the family of Thomas Knowsley Parr, a descendent of Catharine Parr, the sixth wife of King Henry VIII moved to Wymering Manor from Bold Hall, Lancashire, which had been demolished for a coal mine. Many fine architectural features such as the sweeping double staircase with its barleysugar twist balusters and gallery were rescued and installed in Wymering Manor. The Manor’s half-H plan was filled in the nineteenth or twentieth century. In the 1930s Mr. Metcalfe, the last private owner, who was a designer for Airspeed, set up lathes in what had been the magnificent early nineteenth century drawing room. Neville Shute the novelist, who celebrated his work for Airspeed on Portsmouth airport in his novel Slide Rule, and the famous solo pilot Amy Johnson both came here at that time. ...
Their caption:
Turn right for Motown
Location: Manly, Australia
Spotted by: Robert Brown
This picture of a man standing in front of a smiling hippo has become an internet sensation. Three-tonne beast was pictured in its tank behind IT consultant Jay Parker. As his wife took a photograph on the couple's trip to San Diego Zoo, Otis the hippo decided to join in too. The result has left Jay and his wife Lauren baffled as their holiday snap - nicknamed HappyPotamus - has taken cyberspace by storm, popping up on blogs and chatrooms all over the world - and now on the Telegraph site
A young Chinese Shaolin monk leaps through the air, as he performs for visitors during a kung-fu festival at the temple in Dengfeng, central China's Henan province
A murmuration of starlings puts on a spectacular show over Gretna on the Scottish Borders
A picture of Corfe Castle in Dorset, England, by Antony Spencer, which won this year's Landscape Photographer of the Year award
An aerial view of a phenomenon that Hungarians call 'the gold bridge' - the sunset reflecting across the whole width of Lake Balaton as if creating a bridge to walk along to cross the waters
I love this pelican. Wish s/he'd visit me.
...What’s not to love about Anomalocaris?
The undulating lobes, compound eyes, and 2 terrifying barb-like spikes in front of the mouth make this 1 meter long creature look like something out of a nightmare (An AWESOME nightmare).
No wonder someone thought it would make a great pumpkin carving idea. This 500 million year old Cambrian creature would scare the pants off of anyone (OR anything) it comes in contact with…speaking of which…did you notice the little trilobite swimming for its life??? This amazing predatory arthropod swam the seas hunting for softer bodied creatures as well as crunchy hard-bodied trilobites. Precious. It makes my heart pitter-patter. The sheer time, effort, and accuracy put into carving this pumpkin is amazing.
We salute you, Cambrian Era paleo-nerds!
Ta much, dear Anneliese
The undulating lobes, compound eyes, and 2 terrifying barb-like spikes in front of the mouth make this 1 meter long creature look like something out of a nightmare (An AWESOME nightmare).
No wonder someone thought it would make a great pumpkin carving idea. This 500 million year old Cambrian creature would scare the pants off of anyone (OR anything) it comes in contact with…speaking of which…did you notice the little trilobite swimming for its life??? This amazing predatory arthropod swam the seas hunting for softer bodied creatures as well as crunchy hard-bodied trilobites. Precious. It makes my heart pitter-patter. The sheer time, effort, and accuracy put into carving this pumpkin is amazing.
We salute you, Cambrian Era paleo-nerds!
Ta much, dear Anneliese
May 2, 2010
The Gospel of Well-Educated Guessing
By Tom Bartlett
... Mr. Mahajan, 41, is bespectacled and boyish despite a smattering of gray hair. A physicist by training, he's associate director of MIT's Teaching and Learning Laboratory and sort of floats between departments. His affinity for math extends to childhood. When he was a toddler, he informed his parents, correctly, that a heating coil on the ceiling was a hexagon. In first grade, he told his teacher he wanted to be a mathematician when he grew up. The teacher cheerfully announced to the class: "Sanjoy wants to be a magician!" ...
...I decided to see how he'd cope with an unfamiliar quandary. How much, I asked him, is the annual state budget of Delaware? He didn't know the state's population, but he knew that California has about 40 million people and, creatively applying Zipf's law, a statistical observation from which it can be asserted that the largest city is twice the size of the second-largest, he determined that Delaware has about a million people.
It's actually 885,122. So far, so good.
He then assumed that everyone makes $50,000 a year. Some make more, no doubt, and some don't make anything, but this seemed reasonable. He further assumed that the state income tax is 5 percent, the same as in his home state, Massachusetts. He wasn't sure that Delaware has an income tax (it does) but figured that, even if it didn't, revenues from sales taxes would probably be equivalent.
Final answer: $2.5-billion. The actual number for the 2010 fiscal year is $3-billion. For comparison purposes, the budget of neighboring Pennsylvania is $29-billion.
Not bad at all.
A few years ago, Mr. Mahajan became a friend of Jeff Schmidt, a former editor of Physics Today, who sued that publication after he was fired and got an undisclosed settlement. When a reporter asked Mr. Mahajan to estimate the size of the settlement, he came up with $500,000—assuming that, with back pay and damages, Mr. Schmidt would have asked for around a million and settled for half.
The lawyers for the company that owns Physics Today accused Mr. Schmidt of revealing the figure to Mr. Mahajan—which Mr. Schmidt said wasn't true. "They didn't know he was one of the world's experts in estimation," he told me, adding that getting to know Mr. Mahajan was "almost worth getting fired."
I attended one of Mr. Mahajan's classes recently. Afterward I asked him for advice about getting back to the airport. He suggested that I walk across the campus, take the subway, get off three stops later, and wait for a shuttle. Once I did that, printed my boarding pass, and made it through security, Mr. Mahajan estimated, I'd arrive at the gate at 4 p.m.
When I did make it to my gate, I checked the time: 3:54. Close enough.
The Gospel of Well-Educated Guessing
By Tom Bartlett
... Mr. Mahajan, 41, is bespectacled and boyish despite a smattering of gray hair. A physicist by training, he's associate director of MIT's Teaching and Learning Laboratory and sort of floats between departments. His affinity for math extends to childhood. When he was a toddler, he informed his parents, correctly, that a heating coil on the ceiling was a hexagon. In first grade, he told his teacher he wanted to be a mathematician when he grew up. The teacher cheerfully announced to the class: "Sanjoy wants to be a magician!" ...
...I decided to see how he'd cope with an unfamiliar quandary. How much, I asked him, is the annual state budget of Delaware? He didn't know the state's population, but he knew that California has about 40 million people and, creatively applying Zipf's law, a statistical observation from which it can be asserted that the largest city is twice the size of the second-largest, he determined that Delaware has about a million people.
It's actually 885,122. So far, so good.
He then assumed that everyone makes $50,000 a year. Some make more, no doubt, and some don't make anything, but this seemed reasonable. He further assumed that the state income tax is 5 percent, the same as in his home state, Massachusetts. He wasn't sure that Delaware has an income tax (it does) but figured that, even if it didn't, revenues from sales taxes would probably be equivalent.
Final answer: $2.5-billion. The actual number for the 2010 fiscal year is $3-billion. For comparison purposes, the budget of neighboring Pennsylvania is $29-billion.
Not bad at all.
A few years ago, Mr. Mahajan became a friend of Jeff Schmidt, a former editor of Physics Today, who sued that publication after he was fired and got an undisclosed settlement. When a reporter asked Mr. Mahajan to estimate the size of the settlement, he came up with $500,000—assuming that, with back pay and damages, Mr. Schmidt would have asked for around a million and settled for half.
The lawyers for the company that owns Physics Today accused Mr. Schmidt of revealing the figure to Mr. Mahajan—which Mr. Schmidt said wasn't true. "They didn't know he was one of the world's experts in estimation," he told me, adding that getting to know Mr. Mahajan was "almost worth getting fired."
I attended one of Mr. Mahajan's classes recently. Afterward I asked him for advice about getting back to the airport. He suggested that I walk across the campus, take the subway, get off three stops later, and wait for a shuttle. Once I did that, printed my boarding pass, and made it through security, Mr. Mahajan estimated, I'd arrive at the gate at 4 p.m.
When I did make it to my gate, I checked the time: 3:54. Close enough.
Ta much, dear Edosan
Their caption:
Name your poison
Their caption:
Brown is the new black
Their caption:
Top to bottom
Ta much, dear Ar0cketman
September14, 2010
Haunted House: My Sister's Ghost
... So here she is, flamboyantly haunting a house I (probably) never lived in.
Haunted House: My Sister's Ghost
... So here she is, flamboyantly haunting a house I (probably) never lived in.
My God/dess, I love this!
'Tis me current wallpaper, even.
This person's artwork is fabulous!
Lovely stuff here.......
Great stuff here!
How Candy Corn is Born Cake
Ever imagine how Candy Corn is born? Here’s one explanation! Checkerboard Cake Pan rings are used to bake the 3-color cake layers. When you slice cake into wedges, they’ll look like giant pieces of candy corn!
... Place Divider Ring in one 9 x 2 in. pan from set. Tint 1 cup of white batter orange and 1 1/3 cup yellow; reserve 1/3 cup white.
Fill inside small center ring with white batter, inside medium ring with orange batter and inside large outer ring with yellow batter.
Carefully remove Divider Ring before baking. Bake and cool 1-layer cake.
Divide cake top: mark 2 inner circles, one 1 in. and one 2 1/2 in. from edge of cake.
Cover sides and top to 1 in. mark with yellow tip 16 stars, cover area to 2 1/2 in. mark with orange tip 16 stars, fill in center with white tip 16 stars. ...
Ever imagine how Candy Corn is born? Here’s one explanation! Checkerboard Cake Pan rings are used to bake the 3-color cake layers. When you slice cake into wedges, they’ll look like giant pieces of candy corn!
... Place Divider Ring in one 9 x 2 in. pan from set. Tint 1 cup of white batter orange and 1 1/3 cup yellow; reserve 1/3 cup white.
Fill inside small center ring with white batter, inside medium ring with orange batter and inside large outer ring with yellow batter.
Carefully remove Divider Ring before baking. Bake and cool 1-layer cake.
Divide cake top: mark 2 inner circles, one 1 in. and one 2 1/2 in. from edge of cake.
Cover sides and top to 1 in. mark with yellow tip 16 stars, cover area to 2 1/2 in. mark with orange tip 16 stars, fill in center with white tip 16 stars. ...
I need this sign, but plural.
Hello, sailor!
(African)
Date - 1875/1900
Medium - Wood with screws, nails, blades, cowrie shell and other materials
Dimensions - 46 x 18 1/2 x 14 1/4 in. (116.8 x 47 x 36.2 cm.)
Department - Africa, Oceania & Indigenous Americas
Classification - Sculpture
Credit - Founders Society Purchase, Eleanor Clay Ford Fund for African Art
Accession No. 76.79
Provenance - Formerly in the Collection of: Museum fur Volkerkunde, Leipzig.
Security guards at the DIA claim it's haunted. The museum is closed, but strange, loud noises frequently issue from the room where it lives, and no cause is ever discovered.
Win
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Sam
Nichole
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Sam
Nichole
Place
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Cappy Sue
Megan
“Halloween themed Tower Hat: Sleeping beauty (resting in peace), with blue flickering LED.”
Eni
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Cappy Sue
Megan
“Halloween themed Tower Hat: Sleeping beauty (resting in peace), with blue flickering LED.”
Eni
Show
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Darren
“I might be a little high from the rubber cement, but nothing says party like pink hippos and confetti covered merkin.”
Carrie
Tanya
“Materials: container store bags, dental floss, dryer lint, human hair, staples, paper clips, quarter, spork, stickers, markers, glue, delirium”
Carol
Alison
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Darren
“I might be a little high from the rubber cement, but nothing says party like pink hippos and confetti covered merkin.”
Carrie
Tanya
“Materials: container store bags, dental floss, dryer lint, human hair, staples, paper clips, quarter, spork, stickers, markers, glue, delirium”
Carol
Alison
Drunk Crafting
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
“I call this hat, ‘Magical Rainbow Explosion”. I am the model because I am the only person I would trust with such a task. The unicorn is an actual unicorn that I saw wandering through a magical meadow, I drew the picture as fast as I possibly could and hope I captured the true innocence of the majestic creature. The clouds are made from actual clouds. I prayed for months for low cloud cover and captured the clouds in a magical vile. Luckily, I was able to keep them on here, on this hat. The rainbow is made from yarn that I spun on a spinning wheel out of rainbow fibers. It was a long and tedious process, but I managed to get the yarn just the way I like it. I added the word “Magic!” because this hat is simply that: Magic. I hope you like it.”
Mitchell
“Inspired by your suggestion of drinking and lacking construction paper I made my hat out of beer boxes. Actually, I’m sure there’s construction paper around here. I was just too drunk to look for it.”
Jeff
Keipp
“I think I missed a step.”
Marisa
Kym
Mary
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
“I call this hat, ‘Magical Rainbow Explosion”. I am the model because I am the only person I would trust with such a task. The unicorn is an actual unicorn that I saw wandering through a magical meadow, I drew the picture as fast as I possibly could and hope I captured the true innocence of the majestic creature. The clouds are made from actual clouds. I prayed for months for low cloud cover and captured the clouds in a magical vile. Luckily, I was able to keep them on here, on this hat. The rainbow is made from yarn that I spun on a spinning wheel out of rainbow fibers. It was a long and tedious process, but I managed to get the yarn just the way I like it. I added the word “Magic!” because this hat is simply that: Magic. I hope you like it.”
Mitchell
“Inspired by your suggestion of drinking and lacking construction paper I made my hat out of beer boxes. Actually, I’m sure there’s construction paper around here. I was just too drunk to look for it.”
Jeff
Keipp
“I think I missed a step.”
Marisa
Kym
Mary
Runners Up: Duckface
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Jessica
Jules
Renee
Cat
“Hat making is in my Viking blood.”
Melissa
Marian
Posted October 2, 2010 by Helen Killer
Jessica
Jules
Renee
Cat
“Hat making is in my Viking blood.”
Melissa
Marian
Vincent Price:
The Raven
Once upon a deadline dreary, while I pondered weak and weary on the opening paragraph for a toy feature I heard a rapping at my chamber door. That rapping was neither a black bird of portent, nor the dead brought back to life. For the dead back to life, I had only to look upon my desk. The dead man in question is Vincent Price, and a return from the grave was fairly common in many of the horror movies he starred in, though this return is much more contemporary.
Vincent Price has had a long and distinguished career in film and television that spanned decades, though many modern audiences are most familiar with his voice and his role as the inventor in Edward Scissorhands or as the dastardly Egghead from the campy Batman series. Well-educated (he graduated from Yale), he initially had roles as a romantic lead, roles that would soon give way for more varied parts. Price's acting style made him seem never entirely wholesome, and playing sly villains seemed to fit him best. One of his lasting relationships in film was with Roger Corman, with whom he made a plethora of Poe based films (Edgar Allan Poe, that is) in the 1960's, including the House of Usher, The Pit and the Pendulum and The Raven.
The Raven is one of Poe's most well-known works, and it has been pondered by those weak and weary on many a midnight dreary. When Roger Corman pondered it he decided on a whimsical approach rather than one of stark terror, and the film version with Vincent Price was more farce than frightening. The casting of the film almost seems to be a dream team with the aforementioned Price, Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre headlining it, and a small part for budding actor Jack Nicholson (who ended up doing quite well in his own right). ...
The Raven
Once upon a deadline dreary, while I pondered weak and weary on the opening paragraph for a toy feature I heard a rapping at my chamber door. That rapping was neither a black bird of portent, nor the dead brought back to life. For the dead back to life, I had only to look upon my desk. The dead man in question is Vincent Price, and a return from the grave was fairly common in many of the horror movies he starred in, though this return is much more contemporary.
Vincent Price has had a long and distinguished career in film and television that spanned decades, though many modern audiences are most familiar with his voice and his role as the inventor in Edward Scissorhands or as the dastardly Egghead from the campy Batman series. Well-educated (he graduated from Yale), he initially had roles as a romantic lead, roles that would soon give way for more varied parts. Price's acting style made him seem never entirely wholesome, and playing sly villains seemed to fit him best. One of his lasting relationships in film was with Roger Corman, with whom he made a plethora of Poe based films (Edgar Allan Poe, that is) in the 1960's, including the House of Usher, The Pit and the Pendulum and The Raven.
The Raven is one of Poe's most well-known works, and it has been pondered by those weak and weary on many a midnight dreary. When Roger Corman pondered it he decided on a whimsical approach rather than one of stark terror, and the film version with Vincent Price was more farce than frightening. The casting of the film almost seems to be a dream team with the aforementioned Price, Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre headlining it, and a small part for budding actor Jack Nicholson (who ended up doing quite well in his own right). ...
In 2002 NECA released a 12" figure of Vincent Price in their line of "Reel Toys", as he appeared in the 1963 film from A.I.P. and directed by Roger Corman. Starring alongside Price in this film were legendary horror stars Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre, but unfortunately those two did not get their own toys. Actually, this figure comes with a small Raven accessory so I guess you could say that Lorre did get released, since he was changed into a raven by Karloff's character!
When this figure first came out, I wasn't buying any of the 12" monster toys on the market and even when I started to, it wasn't a priority. Now, I love Vincent Price, but a wizard in a furry robe just has to take a back seat to actual monsters. It just has to be that way. But I put it on my Amazon wish list and it found its way into my collection this past Christmas. ...
When this figure first came out, I wasn't buying any of the 12" monster toys on the market and even when I started to, it wasn't a priority. Now, I love Vincent Price, but a wizard in a furry robe just has to take a back seat to actual monsters. It just has to be that way. But I put it on my Amazon wish list and it found its way into my collection this past Christmas. ...
Little Shop of Corman: A Conversation with Roger Corman
... I spoke to Roger Corman via telephone from his offices in Los Angeles, California in August 2009. ...
... Sam: From the beginning your films were, obviously, early independent successes before there was even an independent film industry. I would describe you a pioneer of the independent film industry. Do you think that is a fair assessment?
Roger: I would say that I was one of the pioneers. There has always been a little bit of an independent film industry, but I, as well as a number of other people, was dedicated in the 1960s to making it more popular.
Sam: Your films and your career has inspired so many people. As I said, for myself, as a fan, your movies helped shape the way I value movies. Your work is an inspiration to a lot of people. In this industry, who inspired you?
Roger: Well I would say as a filmmaker I like the works of John Ford and specifically I’ve always admired the great Serge Eisenstein.
Sam: Well Roger, I want to thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me. It was such a thrill for me as a film fan.
Roger: Thank you.
Not long after I conducted this interview with Roger Corman, it was announced that he would finally be getting the recognition that he deserves when the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences announced that it will be bestowing an honorary Oscar to Roger Corman for his contribution to the shaping of Hollywood, and for his mentoring of so many talented actors, producers and directors during his amazing career. In an official statement, the Academy stated:
“The Honorary Award, an Oscar statuette, is given to an individual for extraordinary distinction in lifetime achievement, exceptional contributions to the state of motion picture arts and sciences, or for outstanding service to the Academy. Roger Corman is the director and producer of such notable low-budget films as “It Conquered the World,” “The Little Shop of Horrors,,” “The Intruder,” “The Raven,” “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Wild Angels,” and “The Trip.” He has directed more than 50 films and produced more than 300 during his five-decade career. In addition to his own credits, Corman is widely known for the opportunities he provided as a producer to a number of filmmakers as they embarked on their careers, including Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, James Cameron, Jonathan Demme and Ron Howard.”
Roger Corman’s legacy has finally been validated beyond that of film geeks and cult film connoisseurs. Roger Corman truly has proven himself to be one of the unquestionable legends of Hollywood.
... I spoke to Roger Corman via telephone from his offices in Los Angeles, California in August 2009. ...
... Sam: From the beginning your films were, obviously, early independent successes before there was even an independent film industry. I would describe you a pioneer of the independent film industry. Do you think that is a fair assessment?
Roger: I would say that I was one of the pioneers. There has always been a little bit of an independent film industry, but I, as well as a number of other people, was dedicated in the 1960s to making it more popular.
Sam: Your films and your career has inspired so many people. As I said, for myself, as a fan, your movies helped shape the way I value movies. Your work is an inspiration to a lot of people. In this industry, who inspired you?
Roger: Well I would say as a filmmaker I like the works of John Ford and specifically I’ve always admired the great Serge Eisenstein.
Sam: Well Roger, I want to thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me. It was such a thrill for me as a film fan.
Roger: Thank you.
Not long after I conducted this interview with Roger Corman, it was announced that he would finally be getting the recognition that he deserves when the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences announced that it will be bestowing an honorary Oscar to Roger Corman for his contribution to the shaping of Hollywood, and for his mentoring of so many talented actors, producers and directors during his amazing career. In an official statement, the Academy stated:
“The Honorary Award, an Oscar statuette, is given to an individual for extraordinary distinction in lifetime achievement, exceptional contributions to the state of motion picture arts and sciences, or for outstanding service to the Academy. Roger Corman is the director and producer of such notable low-budget films as “It Conquered the World,” “The Little Shop of Horrors,,” “The Intruder,” “The Raven,” “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Wild Angels,” and “The Trip.” He has directed more than 50 films and produced more than 300 during his five-decade career. In addition to his own credits, Corman is widely known for the opportunities he provided as a producer to a number of filmmakers as they embarked on their careers, including Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, James Cameron, Jonathan Demme and Ron Howard.”
Roger Corman’s legacy has finally been validated beyond that of film geeks and cult film connoisseurs. Roger Corman truly has proven himself to be one of the unquestionable legends of Hollywood.
Their caption: A cracking place to live
Highway blues
Published: Tuesday | October 5, 2010
... Anyway, there I was in a long line of traffic, slowly inching along at a rate of about a foot per five minutes. The rains that drenched the island last week left the two lanes of the roadway leading into St Catherine under water, so vehicles going in both directions were now sharing only one side of the highway. ...
... It was here that the rogue driver of a muddy Coaster bus that was speeding along the sidewalk, decided the spot in front of my car was the perfect place to rejoin the line which he had abandoned some ways back.
He stuck his hand out, which, I suppose, was his way of kindly informing me that he was about to swing the mobile sledge hammer right in front of my car. I had only just started moving again, so the bus driver's manoeuvre caused me to have to jam violently on the brakes, which caused the driver behind me to do the same and the driver behind him, and so on.
In my rear view mirror I could see the driver of the car behind me yelling out the window. I figured he shared my anger at the bus driver. It was when he pulled out of the line and beside me that I realised I had it all wrong.
"Oy man! Wah kinda braking dat? Suppose yuh did mek mi lick up? Ah five accident mi have since year, yuh nuh. Yuh ah go pay mi insurance?" he yelled. In the calmest voice I could muster, I inquired whether he had managed to take note of the bus which had moments before cut me off.
The man told me that the bus driver had a right to do whatever he liked, since his vehicle was larger than mine.
It was then that I lost it, unleashing on the stocky driver a violent, profanity-laden tirade that would have made Peter Tosh blush. When it was all over, the driver, a surprised look on his face, quietly said "Allright boss, drive safe," and returned to his spot in the line. ...
... In the end, it took about two hours for me to get off Mandela Highway that morning but when I did, I felt like I had aged about two years.
Published: Tuesday | October 5, 2010
... Anyway, there I was in a long line of traffic, slowly inching along at a rate of about a foot per five minutes. The rains that drenched the island last week left the two lanes of the roadway leading into St Catherine under water, so vehicles going in both directions were now sharing only one side of the highway. ...
... It was here that the rogue driver of a muddy Coaster bus that was speeding along the sidewalk, decided the spot in front of my car was the perfect place to rejoin the line which he had abandoned some ways back.
He stuck his hand out, which, I suppose, was his way of kindly informing me that he was about to swing the mobile sledge hammer right in front of my car. I had only just started moving again, so the bus driver's manoeuvre caused me to have to jam violently on the brakes, which caused the driver behind me to do the same and the driver behind him, and so on.
In my rear view mirror I could see the driver of the car behind me yelling out the window. I figured he shared my anger at the bus driver. It was when he pulled out of the line and beside me that I realised I had it all wrong.
"Oy man! Wah kinda braking dat? Suppose yuh did mek mi lick up? Ah five accident mi have since year, yuh nuh. Yuh ah go pay mi insurance?" he yelled. In the calmest voice I could muster, I inquired whether he had managed to take note of the bus which had moments before cut me off.
The man told me that the bus driver had a right to do whatever he liked, since his vehicle was larger than mine.
It was then that I lost it, unleashing on the stocky driver a violent, profanity-laden tirade that would have made Peter Tosh blush. When it was all over, the driver, a surprised look on his face, quietly said "Allright boss, drive safe," and returned to his spot in the line. ...
... In the end, it took about two hours for me to get off Mandela Highway that morning but when I did, I felt like I had aged about two years.
Jonathan Franzen's Freedom has been pulped. MORE HEADLINE TO GO HERE
There's nothing like the lonely horror of realising you've made a really massive cock-up
Charlie Brooker
Monday 4 October 2010
Messing up in the workplace is never a pleasant sensation, but the very worst kind of boo-boo is the silent-but-deadly variety: a dizzyingly serious error you realise you've committed long before anyone else.
First comes the awful moment of realisation. In this instant, you're the loneliest person in the world. As the scale of your cock-up sinks in, you feel a cold egg of dread being cracked open over your skull, its chilled albumen seeping down your temples, the icy yolk quivering atop your crown like the frozen cherry on a tortured metaphor. This is followed by a brief period of indignant disbelief: how dare the Gods of Fate allow such a terrible thing to happen to a nice person like you, the idiots?
This defensive psychological distancing lasts about 19 seconds, before being swept away by a burst of intense self-recrimination, during which you feel like pulling your own brain out and spanking it over your knee. And then finally, an unreal calm takes hold while you weigh up your options: will you immediately own up (the honourable thing to do, although you could get fired)? Or will you slyly wait, you snake, to see how things pan out, in the hope that maybe – just maybe – you'll dodge the culpability-bomb when it all comes to light?
Maybe they'll mistakenly blame Tom. You know Tom. Nice bloke. Works hard. Keeps his head down. Recently became a dad for the first time. Hope they sack the shit out of him.
Presumably, a similar scenario played out in someone's mind last week, when it transpired that 80,000 copies of the wrong draft of Jonathan Franzen's new novel Freedom – a 576-page whopper, hailed by some critics as a masterpiece – had inadvertently been printed, bound and distributed. Someone, it seems, had picked up the wrong digital file of the book. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
There's nothing like the lonely horror of realising you've made a really massive cock-up
Charlie Brooker
Monday 4 October 2010
Messing up in the workplace is never a pleasant sensation, but the very worst kind of boo-boo is the silent-but-deadly variety: a dizzyingly serious error you realise you've committed long before anyone else.
First comes the awful moment of realisation. In this instant, you're the loneliest person in the world. As the scale of your cock-up sinks in, you feel a cold egg of dread being cracked open over your skull, its chilled albumen seeping down your temples, the icy yolk quivering atop your crown like the frozen cherry on a tortured metaphor. This is followed by a brief period of indignant disbelief: how dare the Gods of Fate allow such a terrible thing to happen to a nice person like you, the idiots?
This defensive psychological distancing lasts about 19 seconds, before being swept away by a burst of intense self-recrimination, during which you feel like pulling your own brain out and spanking it over your knee. And then finally, an unreal calm takes hold while you weigh up your options: will you immediately own up (the honourable thing to do, although you could get fired)? Or will you slyly wait, you snake, to see how things pan out, in the hope that maybe – just maybe – you'll dodge the culpability-bomb when it all comes to light?
Maybe they'll mistakenly blame Tom. You know Tom. Nice bloke. Works hard. Keeps his head down. Recently became a dad for the first time. Hope they sack the shit out of him.
Presumably, a similar scenario played out in someone's mind last week, when it transpired that 80,000 copies of the wrong draft of Jonathan Franzen's new novel Freedom – a 576-page whopper, hailed by some critics as a masterpiece – had inadvertently been printed, bound and distributed. Someone, it seems, had picked up the wrong digital file of the book. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Mapping Stereotypes by alphadesigner
Europe - Where I Live
Europe According to Gay Men
Italy, According to Italy
Why do so many people wear clothes with brand names on them?
In short, because they are stupid
Hadley Freeman
Sunday 3 October 2010
Hello Hadley, long-time reader, first-time contributor. Why is it that so many people these days wear clothes that absurdly advertise the shop?
- David Walker, London
Hello David, long-time ranter, first-time replier (to you). The answer to your question is simple: it's because they are morons. And not just morons – multi-level morons. For a start, they think that somehow flaunting the name of the shop from which they bought the garment makes them look cool. This means they are brand snobs, which is bad enough, but what makes it even worse is that the brands themselves are always ones that any sane, thinking person would try to hide from the world, such as Sloaney pony Hollister, or the sluttishly ubiquitous Emporio Armani (that Emporio Armani sure gets around: there is not a man on this planet who hasn't had a bit of Emporio Armani splayed across his chest). Thus, while this column obviously abhors any kind of prejudice, it is perfectly acceptable to shun these people, not because they are stupid (although that, too), but because they are saying they think you're stupid, because they think you are as impressed as they are with their label flashing. Now, that's just rude. So shun them, David. Shun them hard. They need to be taught the error of their idiotic ways.
Second, they fail to see that they are merely being used by the brand as a form of free advertising. Again – moronic. They are like those unbelievably dorky kids from summer camp who used to believe the camp counsellor when she said that tidying their bunks extra quickly would make them really cool. Worse, seeing as these idiots are willing to pay to advertise the brands, it is no wonder these companies then decide they probably don't need to fork out money to advertise in magazines and newspapers. Ergo, they are killing the press. Morons!
Third, they paid extra money for that label to be sloshed across their clothes. Lots and lots of extra money! Obviously, as I have never soiled my hands by picking up such a garment, I cannot tell you how much more they have paid for the privilege of being walking adverts. But seeing as they are morons, it is likely to be by at least an extra £500. Per letter.
How long – or, to be more precise, how big – can a man's hair be before it gets a bit "banker"?
- J, New York
J, I like your interjected note of specificity, distinguishing that crucial long/big distinction that is so often treated as a single issue but, in the arena of men's hair, is the difference between sloppy and Sloaney or, to throw in your new, intriguing, and utterly apt description, billowy and banker. With such attention to detail, have you ever thought of working in, I don't know, the financial field? ...
In short, because they are stupid
Hadley Freeman
Sunday 3 October 2010
Hello Hadley, long-time reader, first-time contributor. Why is it that so many people these days wear clothes that absurdly advertise the shop?
- David Walker, London
Hello David, long-time ranter, first-time replier (to you). The answer to your question is simple: it's because they are morons. And not just morons – multi-level morons. For a start, they think that somehow flaunting the name of the shop from which they bought the garment makes them look cool. This means they are brand snobs, which is bad enough, but what makes it even worse is that the brands themselves are always ones that any sane, thinking person would try to hide from the world, such as Sloaney pony Hollister, or the sluttishly ubiquitous Emporio Armani (that Emporio Armani sure gets around: there is not a man on this planet who hasn't had a bit of Emporio Armani splayed across his chest). Thus, while this column obviously abhors any kind of prejudice, it is perfectly acceptable to shun these people, not because they are stupid (although that, too), but because they are saying they think you're stupid, because they think you are as impressed as they are with their label flashing. Now, that's just rude. So shun them, David. Shun them hard. They need to be taught the error of their idiotic ways.
Second, they fail to see that they are merely being used by the brand as a form of free advertising. Again – moronic. They are like those unbelievably dorky kids from summer camp who used to believe the camp counsellor when she said that tidying their bunks extra quickly would make them really cool. Worse, seeing as these idiots are willing to pay to advertise the brands, it is no wonder these companies then decide they probably don't need to fork out money to advertise in magazines and newspapers. Ergo, they are killing the press. Morons!
Third, they paid extra money for that label to be sloshed across their clothes. Lots and lots of extra money! Obviously, as I have never soiled my hands by picking up such a garment, I cannot tell you how much more they have paid for the privilege of being walking adverts. But seeing as they are morons, it is likely to be by at least an extra £500. Per letter.
How long – or, to be more precise, how big – can a man's hair be before it gets a bit "banker"?
- J, New York
J, I like your interjected note of specificity, distinguishing that crucial long/big distinction that is so often treated as a single issue but, in the arena of men's hair, is the difference between sloppy and Sloaney or, to throw in your new, intriguing, and utterly apt description, billowy and banker. With such attention to detail, have you ever thought of working in, I don't know, the financial field? ...
![funny pictures-KITTEH HAIKU terribul battle i fot fur hourz what's a "term paper?"](http://icanhascheezburger.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/df55e095-bcc9-4c2e-a975-85030b15cb7f.jpg "funny pictures KITTEH HAIKU terribul battle i fot fur hourz what's a "term paper?"")
Lost In Space - Dr. Smith's Insult Library
Editor's Note: We've got some fun things in our archive, and this is one of them. Not sure who gathered this information together originally, but I'm reprinting it this time around just for fun. Dr. Smith was such a memorable character--it was hard to like him, and hard to stomach him sometimes, but without him "Lost in Space" would have been so much less colorful. We just love classic scifi TV!
Animated Hunk of Machinery
Animated Weather Station
Arrogant Automation
As Protective as a Leaky Umbrella
Assassin
Astigmatic Automaton
Automated Oaf
Babbling Birdbrain
Babbling Bumpkin
Bellicose Bumpkin
Benedict Arnold
Big Mouth
Blithering Blatherskite
Blithering Booby
Blithering Bumpkin
Blundering Bag of Bolts
Booby
Book Making Booby
Broken-Down Has Been
Brutish Product of the Mineral World
Bubble Brain
Bubble Headed Booby
Bubble Head
Bulbous Bumpkin
Bumbling Bag of Bolts
Bumbling Birdbrain
Bumbling Booby
Bumbling Bucket of Bolts
Bumbling Cracker Barrel
Bumptious Booby
Bumptious Braggart
Bungler
Bungling Incompetent
Cackling Cacophony
Cackling Canister...
Editor's Note: We've got some fun things in our archive, and this is one of them. Not sure who gathered this information together originally, but I'm reprinting it this time around just for fun. Dr. Smith was such a memorable character--it was hard to like him, and hard to stomach him sometimes, but without him "Lost in Space" would have been so much less colorful. We just love classic scifi TV!
Animated Hunk of Machinery
Animated Weather Station
Arrogant Automation
As Protective as a Leaky Umbrella
Assassin
Astigmatic Automaton
Automated Oaf
Babbling Birdbrain
Babbling Bumpkin
Bellicose Bumpkin
Benedict Arnold
Big Mouth
Blithering Blatherskite
Blithering Booby
Blithering Bumpkin
Blundering Bag of Bolts
Booby
Book Making Booby
Broken-Down Has Been
Brutish Product of the Mineral World
Bubble Brain
Bubble Headed Booby
Bubble Head
Bulbous Bumpkin
Bumbling Bag of Bolts
Bumbling Birdbrain
Bumbling Booby
Bumbling Bucket of Bolts
Bumbling Cracker Barrel
Bumptious Booby
Bumptious Braggart
Bungler
Bungling Incompetent
Cackling Cacophony
Cackling Canister...
/Beavis and Butthead snickering
Relaxing in Roselle
Published: Tuesday | September 28, 2010
So it appears I drifted off to sleep while lazing the day away in the shade of a tree in Roselle, St Thomas, last week. The tree, I might add, was just about 30 feet from the sea, so the breeze and the calming sound of waves crashing to shore were more than I could withstand. A more serene scene would be hard to find. That changed quite quickly though, when I was awakened by a loud and frantic shout.
"Oy man! Git up from deh and come help pull di boat!"
I opened my eyes and looked in front of me. Nothing but the sea and sky. I closed my eyes again, thinking it must have been a dream.
"Yuh lay dung deh lakka floor mat? Mi seh fi git up!"
I sat up straight this time and looked around. That's when I noticed a group of about five men some distance to my left, who seemed to be pulling a small boat to shore. I used my right hand to shield my eyes from the sun and squinted to get a better look. I wondered who they were yelling at.
"Is you mi talking! Yuh nuh see we ah struggle? Come help pull di boat! Lazy!"
It was an elderly man who was shouting at me to provide a helping hand to the group. I really was left with no option but to run over there, although I hardly claim to know much about boats.
A quick sprint led me to the spot where the men were. There was a larger group there now, as it appeared some men standing nearby had joined the original boaters.
I asked the elderly man who had been yelling at me, what the problem was. He had a scraggly beard and wore a black patch over his right eye.
The man looked at me for a second.
"Di young bwoy who suppose fi ah guide di boat meck it get weh from him and it come get lodge inna di sand. We need fi push it back out inna di water but it kinda heavy because it pack wid fish," he said.
"Oh," I said, nodding slowly. We both stood there in silence for the next few seconds.
"Go push di boat!" the man shouted at me again.
I sprung into action, running over to the boat to start pushing with every ounce of strength I could muster. My feet were moving to be sure, but nothing else was. The boat certainly wasn't.
"Eeem, teck time young bwoy. Meck di whole ah we push one time," someone said.
I straightened up. The men were apparently unloading some of the fish to lighten the load. I looked around at them. It was an unfortunate-looking bunch of boaters. They all seemed angry and weather-beaten and one of them bore a troubling resemblance to a recently extradited Kingstonian. ...
Kobi Levi
Graduated from Bezalel academy of art & design, Jerusalem 2001. Specialize in footwear design and development/making. Working as a freelance designer. Collaborating with both Israeli and international companies in the past and present years and working on his men shoe line in Tel-Aviv, Israel. Designed industrial footwear in both Italy, China and Brazil. Presented design in various exhibitions in Tel-Aviv, Jerusalem, Tokyo, Verona, St.Etienne, Berlin etc'…
"In my artistic footwear design the shoe is my canvas. The trigger to create a new piece comes when an idea, a concept and/or an image comes to mind. The combination of the image and footwear creates a new hybrid and the design/concept comes to life. The piece is a wearable sculpture. It is "alive" with/out the foot/body. Most of the inspirations are out of the "shoe-world", and give the footwear an extreme transformation. The result is usually humoristic with a unique point of view about footwear. Another aspect of the creation is the realization. All the pieces are hand-made in my studio. The challenging technical development is the key to bring the design to life in the best way."
Graduated from Bezalel academy of art & design, Jerusalem 2001. Specialize in footwear design and development/making. Working as a freelance designer. Collaborating with both Israeli and international companies in the past and present years and working on his men shoe line in Tel-Aviv, Israel. Designed industrial footwear in both Italy, China and Brazil. Presented design in various exhibitions in Tel-Aviv, Jerusalem, Tokyo, Verona, St.Etienne, Berlin etc'…
"In my artistic footwear design the shoe is my canvas. The trigger to create a new piece comes when an idea, a concept and/or an image comes to mind. The combination of the image and footwear creates a new hybrid and the design/concept comes to life. The piece is a wearable sculpture. It is "alive" with/out the foot/body. Most of the inspirations are out of the "shoe-world", and give the footwear an extreme transformation. The result is usually humoristic with a unique point of view about footwear. Another aspect of the creation is the realization. All the pieces are hand-made in my studio. The challenging technical development is the key to bring the design to life in the best way."
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Tea Party takes over comics page
By Ward Sutton
The newspaper comics page: some find it to be innocuous, even at times irrelevant. But there's a growing concern among a certain segment of the country that the comics page is out of step with mainstream values, if not an outright cesspool of treasonous, pinko propaganda. So in the interest of fairness and balance we present comics reinvented by "Tea Party cartoonist Joe Smith" -- with a little help from Ward Sutton.
Ta much, dear BrightKnight
By Ward Sutton
The newspaper comics page: some find it to be innocuous, even at times irrelevant. But there's a growing concern among a certain segment of the country that the comics page is out of step with mainstream values, if not an outright cesspool of treasonous, pinko propaganda. So in the interest of fairness and balance we present comics reinvented by "Tea Party cartoonist Joe Smith" -- with a little help from Ward Sutton.
Ta much, dear BrightKnight
I hope bacon's involved.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
You're very kind....
Ta much, dear Edosan - whom, fellow Categorian, you may blame for the spate of lolsquirrels what follows.
Connecting with Junction
Published: Tuesday | September 21, 2010
... "Never mind Miss B, yuh hear," someone behind me said.
I turned to find a muscular woman with a particularly pronounced chin standing there. She had to have been close to six feet tall and had a bright smile.
"Miss B just meking sure dat everyting is everyting. Nuh pay har nuh mind," she said.
The tall woman told me her name was Tracy.
"Excuse mi deh, ah going in," she said, walking into a nearby shop. I followed her inside.
It wasn't a very big shop but it was well stocked. The shelves were packed with sodas, canned food and sweets.
Tracy went behind the counter to have a seat. I asked her if she had been working there long.
"Yuh know mi not really working here," she said.
"Mi only ah help out di owner. She have 'big' foot so she out fi 'bout a week. Mi really have mi own likkle hairdressing shop but true tings kinda slow, mi decide fi gwaan hold dis fi a while," she said. ...
Published: Tuesday | September 21, 2010
... "Never mind Miss B, yuh hear," someone behind me said.
I turned to find a muscular woman with a particularly pronounced chin standing there. She had to have been close to six feet tall and had a bright smile.
"Miss B just meking sure dat everyting is everyting. Nuh pay har nuh mind," she said.
The tall woman told me her name was Tracy.
"Excuse mi deh, ah going in," she said, walking into a nearby shop. I followed her inside.
It wasn't a very big shop but it was well stocked. The shelves were packed with sodas, canned food and sweets.
Tracy went behind the counter to have a seat. I asked her if she had been working there long.
"Yuh know mi not really working here," she said.
"Mi only ah help out di owner. She have 'big' foot so she out fi 'bout a week. Mi really have mi own likkle hairdressing shop but true tings kinda slow, mi decide fi gwaan hold dis fi a while," she said. ...
Fast-food success in the UK requires a guilt-free form of gluttony . . .
So why not eat yourself for breakfast?
Charlie Brooker
Monday 20 September 2010
What with all the hoo-hah surrounding the pope's recent British holiday, the news that Nando's has bought the Gourmet Burger Kitchen chain for £30m may have escaped your attention. In many ways it's the 21st-century equivalent of Little Chef absorbing Wimpy, albeit markedly more middle-class than that. Both chains specialise in upmarket fast food: the kind of place you don't feel thoroughly ashamed to be seen in, unlike their more established and reviled mass-market competitors.
One cold morning about two years ago, I sat in the window of a McDonald's tucking into a sausage-and-egg McMuffin. It was a bit like sinking my teeth into a small, soft woodland creature with a light dusting of flour; one which thoroughly enjoyed being eaten and responded to each bite by gently urinating warm oil down my chin. It was a strangely comforting experience, until I realised that some – not all, but a reasonable percentage – of the passersby outside the window were regarding me with a combination of pity and contempt as they scurried past. Sitting in the window of a McDonald's, I realised, is a bit like self-harming in a glass booth. People judge you for it.
Not so the Gourmet Burger Kitchen. It has about 50 branches around the UK, but since most of them are in London, chances are you haven't visited one. It's a posher, ostensibly healthier Burger King: fresh, chargrilled, 100% Aberdeen Angus patties served inside buns "made to a secret recipe by our artisan baker". But that much you could probably guess from the name. What's truly shocking, the first time you're confronted with a Gourmet Burger, is the sheer quantity of food involved. Eating one is a bit like attempting to cram a fortnight's worth of clothing into a child-size suitcase, or falling face-first into a meat sofa.
You've got two options: tackle it with a knife and fork (the coward's way out), or dislocate your jaw in the manner of a boa constrictor swallowing a foal, and heave it into your gullet, driving it home like a Victorian taskmaster pushing a buttered eight-year-old into a narrow chimney flue, taking care not to let the top half of the snooty artisan bap smother your nostrils on the way in. ...
So why not eat yourself for breakfast?
Charlie Brooker
Monday 20 September 2010
What with all the hoo-hah surrounding the pope's recent British holiday, the news that Nando's has bought the Gourmet Burger Kitchen chain for £30m may have escaped your attention. In many ways it's the 21st-century equivalent of Little Chef absorbing Wimpy, albeit markedly more middle-class than that. Both chains specialise in upmarket fast food: the kind of place you don't feel thoroughly ashamed to be seen in, unlike their more established and reviled mass-market competitors.
One cold morning about two years ago, I sat in the window of a McDonald's tucking into a sausage-and-egg McMuffin. It was a bit like sinking my teeth into a small, soft woodland creature with a light dusting of flour; one which thoroughly enjoyed being eaten and responded to each bite by gently urinating warm oil down my chin. It was a strangely comforting experience, until I realised that some – not all, but a reasonable percentage – of the passersby outside the window were regarding me with a combination of pity and contempt as they scurried past. Sitting in the window of a McDonald's, I realised, is a bit like self-harming in a glass booth. People judge you for it.
Not so the Gourmet Burger Kitchen. It has about 50 branches around the UK, but since most of them are in London, chances are you haven't visited one. It's a posher, ostensibly healthier Burger King: fresh, chargrilled, 100% Aberdeen Angus patties served inside buns "made to a secret recipe by our artisan baker". But that much you could probably guess from the name. What's truly shocking, the first time you're confronted with a Gourmet Burger, is the sheer quantity of food involved. Eating one is a bit like attempting to cram a fortnight's worth of clothing into a child-size suitcase, or falling face-first into a meat sofa.
You've got two options: tackle it with a knife and fork (the coward's way out), or dislocate your jaw in the manner of a boa constrictor swallowing a foal, and heave it into your gullet, driving it home like a Victorian taskmaster pushing a buttered eight-year-old into a narrow chimney flue, taking care not to let the top half of the snooty artisan bap smother your nostrils on the way in. ...
Blimey!
Crikey!
Stone the crows! 
I knew no child of mine could be this interested in discussing camshaft maintenance!
Ta much, dear Edosan
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Just love this wallpaper - to look at and to touch! Create a real statement with this fabulous Skulls Wallpaper available in striking colours with glitter, oil slick and flock - just stunning!
Skull Wallpaper - Bronze Flock on Oil Slick. The signature paper featuring skulls in a reflective bronze, deep pile velvet on a incredible light-catching, iridescent base, using horribly expensive ink which changes colour as you walk past it - through reds, greens, blacks and golds - like an oil slick....
Ta much, dear MSiegel
I'm starting to feel like an unwitting test subject in a global experiment conducted by Google, in which it attempts to discover how much raw information it can inject directly into my hippocampus before I crumple to the floor and start fitting uncontrollably.
That afternoon, it unveiled a new feature called Google Instant. It delivers search results before you've finished typing them. So now, if I visit Google and start typing my own name, it shows me links to Craigslist the moment I hit "C". When I add the "H", up pops the homepage for Chase online banking. By the time I've spelt out "Charlie", I'm presented with a synopsis and review score for "Charlie St Cloud", a film starring Zac Efron. Add a "Br" and Charlie Brown gazes back at me.
As the name suggests, this all happens instantly. It's the internet on fast-forward, and it's aggressive – like trying to order from a waiter who keeps finishing your sentences while ramming spoonfuls of what he thinks you want directly into your mouth, so you can't even enjoy your blancmange without chewing a gobful of black pudding first.
Naturally, Google is trumpeting it as the best thing since sliced time. In a promotional video, a likable codger gives it a spin and exclaims, "I didn't even have to press enter!" This from a man old enough to remember drying his clothes with a mangle. Google may have released him from the physical misery of pressing enter, but it's destroyed his sense of perspective in the process.
But this isn't just about ease of use: it's about productivity too. Google proudly claims it reduces the average search time by two to five seconds. "That may not seem like a lot at first," it says, "but it adds up."
Cool. Maybe now I'll get round to completing that symphony. ...
Dear Charlie.
Ta much, dear Glenn321
That afternoon, it unveiled a new feature called Google Instant. It delivers search results before you've finished typing them. So now, if I visit Google and start typing my own name, it shows me links to Craigslist the moment I hit "C". When I add the "H", up pops the homepage for Chase online banking. By the time I've spelt out "Charlie", I'm presented with a synopsis and review score for "Charlie St Cloud", a film starring Zac Efron. Add a "Br" and Charlie Brown gazes back at me.
As the name suggests, this all happens instantly. It's the internet on fast-forward, and it's aggressive – like trying to order from a waiter who keeps finishing your sentences while ramming spoonfuls of what he thinks you want directly into your mouth, so you can't even enjoy your blancmange without chewing a gobful of black pudding first.
Naturally, Google is trumpeting it as the best thing since sliced time. In a promotional video, a likable codger gives it a spin and exclaims, "I didn't even have to press enter!" This from a man old enough to remember drying his clothes with a mangle. Google may have released him from the physical misery of pressing enter, but it's destroyed his sense of perspective in the process.
But this isn't just about ease of use: it's about productivity too. Google proudly claims it reduces the average search time by two to five seconds. "That may not seem like a lot at first," it says, "but it adds up."
Cool. Maybe now I'll get round to completing that symphony. ...
Dear Charlie.
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Nikolas Sarkozy has become the latest high profile victim of a Google bomb, after bloggers linked his Facebook page to the phrase "trou du cul".
Schoolboys searching for foreign insults will discover the French for 'asshole' is now synonymous with the diminutive President, according to Google at least. ...
Schoolboys searching for foreign insults will discover the French for 'asshole' is now synonymous with the diminutive President, according to Google at least. ...
Ta much, dear Edosan
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Car thief runs in terror as naked owner jumps in passenger seat
A car thief ran away in terror after the owner of the vehicle jumped into the passenger seat naked and said: "Where we going then?"
03 Sep 2010
Russell Stuart, 51, was asleep in his home in Dymchurch, Kent, when he heard his Peugeot 405 being started up in his driveway in the early hours of the morning.
He leapt out of bed and raced out of his front door before opening the passenger door and getting in alongside the would-be thief. ...
... The father of two said the man flung the door open and ran off into the night as soon as he spotted "a big naked bloke" sitting next to him.
He said: "I just got out of bed and ran to my car, opened the passenger door and sat down.
"I said to him 'All right mate - where are we going then?' and he just jumped out of the car and legged it." ...
... "I'll never forget the look on his face, though, it was a peach."
Mr Stuart said he even started the car and went on the hunt for the thief - whilst still naked - but eventually turned round and went home in fear that he would get arrested for indecent exposure.
He added: "I didn't want to have my own collar felt because, at the end of the day, I was naked and it would have been hard to explain to police."
Bravo! Bravo!
A car thief ran away in terror after the owner of the vehicle jumped into the passenger seat naked and said: "Where we going then?"
03 Sep 2010
Russell Stuart, 51, was asleep in his home in Dymchurch, Kent, when he heard his Peugeot 405 being started up in his driveway in the early hours of the morning.
He leapt out of bed and raced out of his front door before opening the passenger door and getting in alongside the would-be thief. ...
... The father of two said the man flung the door open and ran off into the night as soon as he spotted "a big naked bloke" sitting next to him.
He said: "I just got out of bed and ran to my car, opened the passenger door and sat down.
"I said to him 'All right mate - where are we going then?' and he just jumped out of the car and legged it." ...
... "I'll never forget the look on his face, though, it was a peach."
Mr Stuart said he even started the car and went on the hunt for the thief - whilst still naked - but eventually turned round and went home in fear that he would get arrested for indecent exposure.
He added: "I didn't want to have my own collar felt because, at the end of the day, I was naked and it would have been hard to explain to police."
Bravo! Bravo!
... Explaining where it all began, Banksy says: "You're 14, 15. It's a big world out there, you wanna make your mark, and no one listens to a word you say. Whereas, yer know, one night, one spray can, all of a sudden people notice you."
Banksy was plugged into the trendy street scene, and gives a nod to fellow Bristolian, 3D from dance music outfit Massive Attack.
"There was always a lot of graffiti in my home town growing up, urmm, I think 3D from Massive Attack had brought it back with him off tour in America and he'd been painting all over the city. I started painting graffiti in the classic New York style of big letters and characters but I was never very good at it. I always used to get things too close together or too far apart and it used to take me ages. So I had to come up with a way of making it quicker, otherwise I was gonna get nicked."
The works that catapulted Banksy into the spotlight almost all involved black and white stencil drawings, such as the iconic image of two policemen snogging.
"I mean they're very efficient, stencils. You get to put something up in very little time and it's hard to mess it up.
"When I moved to London I just carried on painting. I never saw that there was anything bad in it.
"You live in the city and all the time there are signs telling you what to do and billboards trying to sell you something. And I always felt that it was all right to answer back a little bit, I suppose. That the city shouldn't just be a one-way conversation "I didn't see why you'd settle for just walls. So I started vandalising statues and that led to vandalising parks. It just kept going really. ..."
Banksy was plugged into the trendy street scene, and gives a nod to fellow Bristolian, 3D from dance music outfit Massive Attack.
"There was always a lot of graffiti in my home town growing up, urmm, I think 3D from Massive Attack had brought it back with him off tour in America and he'd been painting all over the city. I started painting graffiti in the classic New York style of big letters and characters but I was never very good at it. I always used to get things too close together or too far apart and it used to take me ages. So I had to come up with a way of making it quicker, otherwise I was gonna get nicked."
The works that catapulted Banksy into the spotlight almost all involved black and white stencil drawings, such as the iconic image of two policemen snogging.
"I mean they're very efficient, stencils. You get to put something up in very little time and it's hard to mess it up.
"When I moved to London I just carried on painting. I never saw that there was anything bad in it.
"You live in the city and all the time there are signs telling you what to do and billboards trying to sell you something. And I always felt that it was all right to answer back a little bit, I suppose. That the city shouldn't just be a one-way conversation "I didn't see why you'd settle for just walls. So I started vandalising statues and that led to vandalising parks. It just kept going really. ..."
Nose-diving hawk halts mail delivery
Thursday, September 2, 2010 | 11:37 AM MT
Dogs are usually pegged as a postal worker's worst enemy, but in one southwest Calgary neighbourhood a hawk is the one spoiling for a fight.
Mail delivery in Bayview has been temporarily suspended because a hawk has been nose-diving the local mail carrier.
"The hawk just really seemed to have a hate on for that particular letter carrier," Teresa Williams, spokeswoman for Canada Post, told CBC News.
"The attacks got so bad that she was resorting to wearing a bicycle helmet. And the hawk even broke the bicycle helmet."
About 150 homes have had their delivery service suspended.
Residents say there's a family of four hawks that have been circling above their homes and dropping in every once in a while.
"He lives in my neighbour's tree," said Bayview resident Kathryn Chan. "We have a joke amongst the neighbours – don't look him in the eye because then he might come down." ...
Thursday, September 2, 2010 | 11:37 AM MT
Dogs are usually pegged as a postal worker's worst enemy, but in one southwest Calgary neighbourhood a hawk is the one spoiling for a fight.
Mail delivery in Bayview has been temporarily suspended because a hawk has been nose-diving the local mail carrier.
"The hawk just really seemed to have a hate on for that particular letter carrier," Teresa Williams, spokeswoman for Canada Post, told CBC News.
"The attacks got so bad that she was resorting to wearing a bicycle helmet. And the hawk even broke the bicycle helmet."
About 150 homes have had their delivery service suspended.
Residents say there's a family of four hawks that have been circling above their homes and dropping in every once in a while.
"He lives in my neighbour's tree," said Bayview resident Kathryn Chan. "We have a joke amongst the neighbours – don't look him in the eye because then he might come down." ...
Savage! as Our Man in Limerick would have it
Ta much, dear MSiegel!
...unless it be an Amphicar, or the Rinspeed Splash, or one of those weird Chinese amphibious thangs, or a DUKW, or a Gibbs Aquada, or a Dutton Commander...
Sounds like a plan....
Ta much, dear Edosan
o_- indeed, dear MSiegel
Ta much, dear MSiegel
/shudder
Ta much, dear Edosan
The innovative design, however, isn’t limited to form: the cursor moves in direction and velocity according to the tilt of the spherical mouse, which rests comfortably in the palm of your hand.
The Jupiter mouse not only brings a refreshing natural element to your desk but also offers an exciting new approach to navigating your computer screen. ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Are we consulting yet?
That does it! I'm converting to Rastafarianism!
That does it! I'm converting to Rastafarianism!
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Ta much, dear Ar0cketman
The Metropolitan Detroit area boasts a DeKay Funeral Home.
The Dread Cthulhu Tries to Relax
emails containing the words 'Sophia' and 'mother' will be deleted unread. I have already set up the filter
it was the mental image of the deer that prompted the cognitive leap
it was the mental image of the deer that prompted the cognitive leap
Cthulhu Fail
By robert | Published: January 26, 2010
In honor of Dread Cthulhu and the Twitter Fail Whale.
By robert | Published: January 26, 2010
In honor of Dread Cthulhu and the Twitter Fail Whale.
Ta much, dear Edosan! Seeing it drove me to post this semi-tangent:
The Horse Song
Iggy Pop
Zombie Birdhouse (1982)
I never saw you before
I never smelled Spring before
Now I'm at your door
And I hope you're unusual
very unusual
Now I'm at your door
And when you nicely ask me in
I'm staring at your shoes
and I don't wonder why
I feel like a horse
We can stray
out on the open range
Missing the everyday
with its hidden claws
Spring snow
And when you brush me
you brush me with your eyes
I think you've noticed that
I don't want to be a bad guy anymore
I never saw you before
but you're unusual
and now i'm at your door
I feel safe and warm
I feel
I feel
I feel
I feel
Like a
Horse
ha ha ha ha
what's this?
Child's play
Location: a ride for children under six years; West Edmonton Mall, Canada
Spotted by: Marc Dennis
I hear you can buy the Brooklyn Bridge wherever these are sold.
This is an older incarnation.
Oooh, lickle lolfroggiez!
Uh, yeah...good luck with that, man.
Well spoken, Bookend.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
NYC – Diogenes
LA
Park City, Utah
Camden / Regents Canal
Hadta bump this.
I'd kiss you, Jezza, but you're too far away.
0 yes u haz!
Ta much, dear Edosan
What must a nut do?
June 3, 2010
The punk prophet of Ing-er-land
How did Mark E. Smith of the Fall get involved in the World Cup song England’s Heartbeat? It’s in his blood, he says
Terry Christian
... England’s Heartbeat, on which Smith sings, rather than using the sloganeering quasi-rap of the Fall records, is an impassioned and witty appeal for a show of pride from England in South Africa. Smith urges the players to “take care of the invention of your nation . . . socks up at last or be a Brazilian breakfast”. Gone, it says, should be the days of England teams wilting in the June sunshine like a bunch of cry babies.
“I can assure you,” Smith says, “it definitely won’t get to No 1.”
I have spent numerous hours over the past three decades drinking with Smith. I have a fascination with the Fall that dates back to the first time I saw them in 1978. Smith was annoying the crowd by dedicating a song to Elvis Presley, anathema to punks at the time and very amusing to witness. As a young radio presenter, I interviewed him about his albums, from Slates and Hex Enduction Hour onwards. He remains one of the most interesting people I’ve met. Given his ranting stage presence and reputation for not suffering fools, the most unexpected thing about him was always how friendly he was, and what a good sense of humour he had.
A strong part of Smith’s working-class credentials is the appreciation and respect he has for the older generation. The first thing he’d say whenever we met was: “How’s your mam?” This time, when I tell him that she died in April, he’s genuinely sad for me. “April is the cruellest month.”
“Where does that come from?”
“T. S. Eliot, I think.”
Smith has a habit of understating his knowledge. Something he’s been doing with his lyrics for the Fall for more than three decades. He was always reading new stuff, listening to new stuff and plugged into the real world.
The Fall were John Peel’s favourite group; he famously described them as “always the same, always different”, which is as good a summary of their uniqueness as any. So, given his long history on the cutting edge, why has Smith done something as seemingly mainstream as a World Cup record?
Well, he has history with the Beautiful Game, he points out: “The Fall were the first band to ever do a song about football when we did Kicker Conspiracy for Rough Trade in 1983. At the time all these hippies at Rough Trade were saying, “You can’t do that; music fans aren’t into football’. We also did Kurious Oranj, which was about football rivalries, and Sparta FC a couple of years ago.”
There’s the urge, too, to improve on a genre that’s not exactly flush with quality. “All the World Cup songs I’ve heard are rubbish,” Smith says, giving amused short shrift to songs such as New Order’s World in Motion and Skinner and Baddiel’s Three Lions. ...
... With warm reviews for their recent album, Your Future Our Clutter, the Fall’s longevity continues. After years of refusing to sign contracts, Smith retains the rights to all his recorded material. “I always knew, even when we were only getting ten quid a week out of the group, that the last thing I wanted to do was sign all my songs over to some hippy. People in other bands used to laugh at us for not signing contracts or think we were mad. But they’d be massive for two years and then disappear.”
He has a wry sideswipe, too, at the current crop of British bands: “They’ve all been to drama school.” Taking that to be a dig at how middle-class they are, I ask him what it was like working with the artschool-educated Damon Albarn on Gorillaz’ Plastic Beach album. He immediately sees what I’m getting at, smiles and brushes it aside: “It was really good, he really knows exactly what he’s doing and works properly.” ...
The punk prophet of Ing-er-land
How did Mark E. Smith of the Fall get involved in the World Cup song England’s Heartbeat? It’s in his blood, he says
Terry Christian
... England’s Heartbeat, on which Smith sings, rather than using the sloganeering quasi-rap of the Fall records, is an impassioned and witty appeal for a show of pride from England in South Africa. Smith urges the players to “take care of the invention of your nation . . . socks up at last or be a Brazilian breakfast”. Gone, it says, should be the days of England teams wilting in the June sunshine like a bunch of cry babies.
“I can assure you,” Smith says, “it definitely won’t get to No 1.”
I have spent numerous hours over the past three decades drinking with Smith. I have a fascination with the Fall that dates back to the first time I saw them in 1978. Smith was annoying the crowd by dedicating a song to Elvis Presley, anathema to punks at the time and very amusing to witness. As a young radio presenter, I interviewed him about his albums, from Slates and Hex Enduction Hour onwards. He remains one of the most interesting people I’ve met. Given his ranting stage presence and reputation for not suffering fools, the most unexpected thing about him was always how friendly he was, and what a good sense of humour he had.
A strong part of Smith’s working-class credentials is the appreciation and respect he has for the older generation. The first thing he’d say whenever we met was: “How’s your mam?” This time, when I tell him that she died in April, he’s genuinely sad for me. “April is the cruellest month.”
“Where does that come from?”
“T. S. Eliot, I think.”
Smith has a habit of understating his knowledge. Something he’s been doing with his lyrics for the Fall for more than three decades. He was always reading new stuff, listening to new stuff and plugged into the real world.
The Fall were John Peel’s favourite group; he famously described them as “always the same, always different”, which is as good a summary of their uniqueness as any. So, given his long history on the cutting edge, why has Smith done something as seemingly mainstream as a World Cup record?
Well, he has history with the Beautiful Game, he points out: “The Fall were the first band to ever do a song about football when we did Kicker Conspiracy for Rough Trade in 1983. At the time all these hippies at Rough Trade were saying, “You can’t do that; music fans aren’t into football’. We also did Kurious Oranj, which was about football rivalries, and Sparta FC a couple of years ago.”
There’s the urge, too, to improve on a genre that’s not exactly flush with quality. “All the World Cup songs I’ve heard are rubbish,” Smith says, giving amused short shrift to songs such as New Order’s World in Motion and Skinner and Baddiel’s Three Lions. ...
... With warm reviews for their recent album, Your Future Our Clutter, the Fall’s longevity continues. After years of refusing to sign contracts, Smith retains the rights to all his recorded material. “I always knew, even when we were only getting ten quid a week out of the group, that the last thing I wanted to do was sign all my songs over to some hippy. People in other bands used to laugh at us for not signing contracts or think we were mad. But they’d be massive for two years and then disappear.”
He has a wry sideswipe, too, at the current crop of British bands: “They’ve all been to drama school.” Taking that to be a dig at how middle-class they are, I ask him what it was like working with the artschool-educated Damon Albarn on Gorillaz’ Plastic Beach album. He immediately sees what I’m getting at, smiles and brushes it aside: “It was really good, he really knows exactly what he’s doing and works properly.” ...
'Had it crashed? Or was it being sarcastic?' Charlie Brooker on the iPad | Technology | The Guardian
'Had it crashed? Or was it being sarcastic?' Charlie Brooker on the iPad
Websites look great on it. As does video. But books? Here, I'm less convinced
Saturday 29 May 2010
The iPad: the world's most expensive rectangle. The Guardian wanted me to write a first-impressions review on launch day – but how? I could borrow one from an early adopter, but that wouldn't be the same. I don't like poking round other people's computers. It's like snooping through their medicine cabinets: quite quickly you can stumble across something you wish you hadn't seen. I needed a new one, straight out of the packaging. A new one I could keep.
But this being launch day, iPads were bound to be scarcer than cats' eggs, right? Disappointingly, the Guardian picked one up from the Tottenham Court Road branch of PC World without having to kill anyone.
Typically for Apple, the packaging virtually places the device in your hands with the grace of a well-trained butler. The iPad itself is surprisingly heavy: about the same as a hardback book. It gave me mild arm ache almost immediately. Maybe there's an app that can tell you how many calories you're burning just by holding it. The best solution is to adopt a self-consciously casual crossed-legged sitting position, and prop it up with your thigh. Fanboys who wet themselves may cause a short circuit.
The display is extremely glossy, so the first thing you'll see on your screen is a reflection of your face from an unflattering angle. It also doubles as a fingerprint collector, which means you'll spend the first hour obsessively wiping it clean on your T-shirt before giving up and ordering an adhesive screen protector from Amazon (which, if the iPhone equivalents are anything to go by, will be impossible to apply without contemplating suicide at least twice). At this price, Apple – nice, friendly Apply – could at least include a couple of free screen protectors and some kind of carry-case, no? Of course not.
You're required to use iTunes during the setup process, which is like being forced to eat a handful of mud. iTunes is twice as awful as any software crime Microsoft ever inflicted on the world. Up popped a progress bar which turned out to be a work of satirical fiction – lodging fast at 7/8ths complete while making random claims about how long it was going to take to finish. It was impossible to tell if it had crashed or was just being sarcastic. I was scared to pull the sync cable out– and I'm a nerd. So much for Macs being easy to use. Eventually a nice man from MacFormat magazine saw me moaning about it on Twitter and gave me some personal assistance. Your experience may differ. ...
... So websites look great on it. As does video. The BBC iPlayer is particularly impressive. But books? Here, I'm less convinced. Kindle owners can download a free app which lets them access their books on the iPad; Apple also has its own rival iBook service. In both cases the screen looks superb, and swiping a finger across the screen to flip the page gives you an undeniable futuristic thrill. But the display, luminously gorgeous when replaying video, is simply not suited for reading articles at length.Yes, you can adjust the brightness, but it's still firing light into your pupils, unlike an ebook screen, with its poncey "electronic ink".
I doubt many readers will persevere to the final page of a novel, unless it's a book in which the lead character squints a lot, in which case you'll have a certain empathy. ...
Websites look great on it. As does video. But books? Here, I'm less convinced
Saturday 29 May 2010
The iPad: the world's most expensive rectangle. The Guardian wanted me to write a first-impressions review on launch day – but how? I could borrow one from an early adopter, but that wouldn't be the same. I don't like poking round other people's computers. It's like snooping through their medicine cabinets: quite quickly you can stumble across something you wish you hadn't seen. I needed a new one, straight out of the packaging. A new one I could keep.
But this being launch day, iPads were bound to be scarcer than cats' eggs, right? Disappointingly, the Guardian picked one up from the Tottenham Court Road branch of PC World without having to kill anyone.
Typically for Apple, the packaging virtually places the device in your hands with the grace of a well-trained butler. The iPad itself is surprisingly heavy: about the same as a hardback book. It gave me mild arm ache almost immediately. Maybe there's an app that can tell you how many calories you're burning just by holding it. The best solution is to adopt a self-consciously casual crossed-legged sitting position, and prop it up with your thigh. Fanboys who wet themselves may cause a short circuit.
The display is extremely glossy, so the first thing you'll see on your screen is a reflection of your face from an unflattering angle. It also doubles as a fingerprint collector, which means you'll spend the first hour obsessively wiping it clean on your T-shirt before giving up and ordering an adhesive screen protector from Amazon (which, if the iPhone equivalents are anything to go by, will be impossible to apply without contemplating suicide at least twice). At this price, Apple – nice, friendly Apply – could at least include a couple of free screen protectors and some kind of carry-case, no? Of course not.
You're required to use iTunes during the setup process, which is like being forced to eat a handful of mud. iTunes is twice as awful as any software crime Microsoft ever inflicted on the world. Up popped a progress bar which turned out to be a work of satirical fiction – lodging fast at 7/8ths complete while making random claims about how long it was going to take to finish. It was impossible to tell if it had crashed or was just being sarcastic. I was scared to pull the sync cable out– and I'm a nerd. So much for Macs being easy to use. Eventually a nice man from MacFormat magazine saw me moaning about it on Twitter and gave me some personal assistance. Your experience may differ. ...
... So websites look great on it. As does video. The BBC iPlayer is particularly impressive. But books? Here, I'm less convinced. Kindle owners can download a free app which lets them access their books on the iPad; Apple also has its own rival iBook service. In both cases the screen looks superb, and swiping a finger across the screen to flip the page gives you an undeniable futuristic thrill. But the display, luminously gorgeous when replaying video, is simply not suited for reading articles at length.Yes, you can adjust the brightness, but it's still firing light into your pupils, unlike an ebook screen, with its poncey "electronic ink".
I doubt many readers will persevere to the final page of a novel, unless it's a book in which the lead character squints a lot, in which case you'll have a certain empathy. ...
Ta much, dear Edosan
...the answer, of course, is American cartoons. When it comes to pop music, characters in American TV cartoons do no not mess with Mr Inbetween. Characters in cartoons never ask those dumb questions: "Should I like this?", "Am I allowed to like this?", "If I say I like this, will my peer group laugh at me?"
No, cartoon characters always critique an act from the gut. The only way any critic should ever act. Which is why characters in US cartoons make better critics than actual critics. Who, by the way, would almost certainly make rubbish cartoon characters.
There are many fine examples of cartoon characters proving themselves to be better rock critics than actual rock critics. Here, however, just a few examples will have to suffice.
So there's Bart Simpson at a Smashing Pumpkins concert: "Meh. Making teenagers miserable is like shooting fish in a barrel."
Touché, Bart! Twenty years of aural sludge demolished! Then there's Homer making a band play only their one big hit. And then only the good bit. Over and over again. Which, if you admit it, is all you really want anyway, right? Sheer and shockingly honest postmodern genius, Homer.
Next we've got Family Guy's Peter Griffin rediscovering Surfin' Bird and playing the record to death until everyone around him is sick, screaming doolally mental and pulling their ears out in frustration. Don't you wish you could still appreciate moronic rock with that much intensity? Peter gives you permission.
And, finally, here's Beavis and Butthead dissecting Radiohead's Creep:
Beavis: "Why don't they just play the cool part all the way through?"
Butthead: "Well Beavis, if they didn't have a part of the song that sucked, the other part wouldn't be so cool."
I rest my case.
No, cartoon characters always critique an act from the gut. The only way any critic should ever act. Which is why characters in US cartoons make better critics than actual critics. Who, by the way, would almost certainly make rubbish cartoon characters.
There are many fine examples of cartoon characters proving themselves to be better rock critics than actual rock critics. Here, however, just a few examples will have to suffice.
So there's Bart Simpson at a Smashing Pumpkins concert: "Meh. Making teenagers miserable is like shooting fish in a barrel."
Touché, Bart! Twenty years of aural sludge demolished! Then there's Homer making a band play only their one big hit. And then only the good bit. Over and over again. Which, if you admit it, is all you really want anyway, right? Sheer and shockingly honest postmodern genius, Homer.
Next we've got Family Guy's Peter Griffin rediscovering Surfin' Bird and playing the record to death until everyone around him is sick, screaming doolally mental and pulling their ears out in frustration. Don't you wish you could still appreciate moronic rock with that much intensity? Peter gives you permission.
And, finally, here's Beavis and Butthead dissecting Radiohead's Creep:
Beavis: "Why don't they just play the cool part all the way through?"
Butthead: "Well Beavis, if they didn't have a part of the song that sucked, the other part wouldn't be so cool."
I rest my case.
Never mind the Con-Dem coalition. We want bogeymen and we want them now
Why can't these 21st-century Tories just be massively unreasonable from the outset?
Charlie Brooker
Monday 17 May 2010
So: the weirdest election in history has produced the weirdest government imaginable. Well, almost. If Cameron had formed a coalition with the cast of Bergerac, that would be weirder – but only by about seven per cent.
The worst part is working out who to hate, and why. I was eight when Thatcher got in, and didn't really understand what was happening. Nonetheless, before long the Tories had replaced the Cybermen as my number one bogeymen. At first there was a simple, visceral reason for this: they seemed alarmingly gung-ho about nuclear war. They believed nuclear missiles were an effective deterrent, and furthermore, that a nuclear war might be winnable anyway.
I was opposed to all kinds of nuclear war – even little ones between neighbouring Welsh counties were simply not on, in my book. It was my understanding that these things tended to spiral out of control, and burning to death in a massive exploding fireball didn't rank very high on my list of hopes and dreams for the future.
(My paranoia wasn't that far off, as it happens. According to the book Rendez-Vous: The Psychoanalysis of François Mitterrand, at the height of the Falklands war, Thatcher threatened to nuke Argentina unless President Mitterrand handed over disabling codes for the French-built Exocet missiles which were pounding British ships. If that was true, and had actually happened, you wouldn't be reading the Guardian right now – you'd be fighting a giant scorpion to impress the village elders.)
As if plotting to destroy the world wasn't bad enough, the Conservatives went on to preside over the most wilfully obnoxious and polarising decade imaginable: braying yuppies at one extreme, penniless strikers at the other. The Tories weren't just nasty – they seemed to actively enjoy being nasty. And there was no getting rid of them, even when Thatcher got the boot. Consequently, an entire generation grew up regarding the Tory government as something like rain, or wasps, or stomach flu: an unavoidable, undying source of dismay. ...
Why can't these 21st-century Tories just be massively unreasonable from the outset?
Charlie Brooker
Monday 17 May 2010
So: the weirdest election in history has produced the weirdest government imaginable. Well, almost. If Cameron had formed a coalition with the cast of Bergerac, that would be weirder – but only by about seven per cent.
The worst part is working out who to hate, and why. I was eight when Thatcher got in, and didn't really understand what was happening. Nonetheless, before long the Tories had replaced the Cybermen as my number one bogeymen. At first there was a simple, visceral reason for this: they seemed alarmingly gung-ho about nuclear war. They believed nuclear missiles were an effective deterrent, and furthermore, that a nuclear war might be winnable anyway.
I was opposed to all kinds of nuclear war – even little ones between neighbouring Welsh counties were simply not on, in my book. It was my understanding that these things tended to spiral out of control, and burning to death in a massive exploding fireball didn't rank very high on my list of hopes and dreams for the future.
(My paranoia wasn't that far off, as it happens. According to the book Rendez-Vous: The Psychoanalysis of François Mitterrand, at the height of the Falklands war, Thatcher threatened to nuke Argentina unless President Mitterrand handed over disabling codes for the French-built Exocet missiles which were pounding British ships. If that was true, and had actually happened, you wouldn't be reading the Guardian right now – you'd be fighting a giant scorpion to impress the village elders.)
As if plotting to destroy the world wasn't bad enough, the Conservatives went on to preside over the most wilfully obnoxious and polarising decade imaginable: braying yuppies at one extreme, penniless strikers at the other. The Tories weren't just nasty – they seemed to actively enjoy being nasty. And there was no getting rid of them, even when Thatcher got the boot. Consequently, an entire generation grew up regarding the Tory government as something like rain, or wasps, or stomach flu: an unavoidable, undying source of dismay. ...
Now all we need is some third unlikely critter, and this whole "Incredible Journey" thing can begin.
‘Were you still up when Brown lost his Balls?’
The Mole
That’s what the Tories - and many in the Labour party, too - hope to be asking tomorrow morning
LAST UPDATED 9:21 AM, MAY 6, 2010
Labour campaigners are anticipating with bated breath the election coverage between 2.30am and 3.0am tomorrow when the returning officer is due to announce the result of the election in the West Yorkshire seat of Morley & Outwood where Schools Secretary and would-be Labour leader Ed Balls could go down to defeat in a 'Portillo moment'.
The Brown camp has accepted defeat in the overall result - though they cling to the hope of winning the largest number of seats thanks to the weird voting system they are now pledged to reform. That could enable Brown to cling to power in a deal with Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg, but it is a remote hope. Clegg has already made clear he doesn't want to play footsie over power with Brown.
So the Labour camp are already moving on to what happens after their electoral car crash.
Balls, Brown's protege, has the tacit backing of Britain's biggest union Unite to launch a leadership bid if the polls are right and Brown is forced out of office, while the modernisers are clustering round Foreign Secretary David Miliband as the great hope to rebuild New Labour's broken pact with the people.
Balls first has to get over the hurdle of winning his seat which has become one of the Tory's 'decapitation' targets through boundary changes. It is estimated that it will take a swing to the Tories of about 10 per cent to get Balls out - far less than the 17.4 per cent swing to Labour that forced Michael Portillo out in 1997. Then TV viewers who stayed up late watched stunned as the high-profile Tory Cabinet minister lost his Enfield Southgate seat to the young Labour candidate, Stephen Twigg.
"Were you still up for Portillo?" became a catchphrase - and even a book title - in the aftermath. There is no doubt many Tories relish asking each other tomorrow morning: "Were you still up when Brown lost his Balls?" ...
The Mole
That’s what the Tories - and many in the Labour party, too - hope to be asking tomorrow morning
LAST UPDATED 9:21 AM, MAY 6, 2010
Labour campaigners are anticipating with bated breath the election coverage between 2.30am and 3.0am tomorrow when the returning officer is due to announce the result of the election in the West Yorkshire seat of Morley & Outwood where Schools Secretary and would-be Labour leader Ed Balls could go down to defeat in a 'Portillo moment'.
The Brown camp has accepted defeat in the overall result - though they cling to the hope of winning the largest number of seats thanks to the weird voting system they are now pledged to reform. That could enable Brown to cling to power in a deal with Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg, but it is a remote hope. Clegg has already made clear he doesn't want to play footsie over power with Brown.
So the Labour camp are already moving on to what happens after their electoral car crash.
Balls, Brown's protege, has the tacit backing of Britain's biggest union Unite to launch a leadership bid if the polls are right and Brown is forced out of office, while the modernisers are clustering round Foreign Secretary David Miliband as the great hope to rebuild New Labour's broken pact with the people.
Balls first has to get over the hurdle of winning his seat which has become one of the Tory's 'decapitation' targets through boundary changes. It is estimated that it will take a swing to the Tories of about 10 per cent to get Balls out - far less than the 17.4 per cent swing to Labour that forced Michael Portillo out in 1997. Then TV viewers who stayed up late watched stunned as the high-profile Tory Cabinet minister lost his Enfield Southgate seat to the young Labour candidate, Stephen Twigg.
"Were you still up for Portillo?" became a catchphrase - and even a book title - in the aftermath. There is no doubt many Tories relish asking each other tomorrow morning: "Were you still up when Brown lost his Balls?" ...
Picking a leader boils down to the question: 'Which stage persona do you prefer?' Answer: not Cameron's
Charlie Brooker
Monday 3 May 2010
One of the most fascinating sights I've witnessed thus far during the coverage of the 2010 election campaign is Gordon Brown's visit to a branch of Tesco in Hastings on 16 April, which was broadcast live and uninterrupted for about five minutes on Sky News.
"Hello, good to see you," says Gordon, shaking someone's hand. "It's great to be here," he continues, waving at a well-wisher. He looks around. "This is a good store, isn't it?" he enquires of no one in particular. He spots a young boy. "How old are you?" he asks. The boy is eight. "That's a good age," Gordon concludes. "Which football team do you support?"
As he continues walking through the supermarket, the pictures carry on moving, but the sound appears to be stuck on a loop, because Gordon's repeating the same words. "Hello, good to see you." "It's great to be here." "This is a good store, isn't it?" "How old are you?" "That's a good age." "Which football team do you support?" The same handful of phrases, over and over again, for five minutes.
When you watch the footage repeatedly, as I have, distinct patterns start to emerge. Throughout the visit, Brown looks marginally less comfortable than a horse crossing a rope bridge, and his internal dialogue tree is starkly visible. Whenever he meets a boy of eight years old or older, for instance, Gordon briefly asks which football team they support, then chuckles, whatever the answer, before moving on to say "Hello, good to see you" to someone else. That's the way he's been programmed. (He occasionally breaks up his repetitive mantra with brief statements of the obvious: at one point, he glances at a shelf full of produce and says, "There's a lot of produce here." It almost makes you wish he was being shown around an orgy instead. Almost.)
The footage is funny, yet somehow heartbreaking. Brown looks clumsy, ungainly and chronically unsure how to behave around everyday shoppers. He reminds me of me. I can scarcely look people in the eye in supermarkets either. But I've learned to survive in demanding public situations – such as standing in front of an audience of expectant strangers – by adopting a babbling, deliberately awkward, vaguely nihilistic persona that is 50% me and 50% comic construct.
It's a shield of radioactive bullshit that hopefully provides just enough entertainment value to stop the crowd physically attacking me, and just enough psychological distance to stop me crumpling to the floor and ripping my own face off at the sheer uncomfortable weirdness of it all. ...
Charlie Brooker
Monday 3 May 2010
One of the most fascinating sights I've witnessed thus far during the coverage of the 2010 election campaign is Gordon Brown's visit to a branch of Tesco in Hastings on 16 April, which was broadcast live and uninterrupted for about five minutes on Sky News.
"Hello, good to see you," says Gordon, shaking someone's hand. "It's great to be here," he continues, waving at a well-wisher. He looks around. "This is a good store, isn't it?" he enquires of no one in particular. He spots a young boy. "How old are you?" he asks. The boy is eight. "That's a good age," Gordon concludes. "Which football team do you support?"
As he continues walking through the supermarket, the pictures carry on moving, but the sound appears to be stuck on a loop, because Gordon's repeating the same words. "Hello, good to see you." "It's great to be here." "This is a good store, isn't it?" "How old are you?" "That's a good age." "Which football team do you support?" The same handful of phrases, over and over again, for five minutes.
When you watch the footage repeatedly, as I have, distinct patterns start to emerge. Throughout the visit, Brown looks marginally less comfortable than a horse crossing a rope bridge, and his internal dialogue tree is starkly visible. Whenever he meets a boy of eight years old or older, for instance, Gordon briefly asks which football team they support, then chuckles, whatever the answer, before moving on to say "Hello, good to see you" to someone else. That's the way he's been programmed. (He occasionally breaks up his repetitive mantra with brief statements of the obvious: at one point, he glances at a shelf full of produce and says, "There's a lot of produce here." It almost makes you wish he was being shown around an orgy instead. Almost.)
The footage is funny, yet somehow heartbreaking. Brown looks clumsy, ungainly and chronically unsure how to behave around everyday shoppers. He reminds me of me. I can scarcely look people in the eye in supermarkets either. But I've learned to survive in demanding public situations – such as standing in front of an audience of expectant strangers – by adopting a babbling, deliberately awkward, vaguely nihilistic persona that is 50% me and 50% comic construct.
It's a shield of radioactive bullshit that hopefully provides just enough entertainment value to stop the crowd physically attacking me, and just enough psychological distance to stop me crumpling to the floor and ripping my own face off at the sheer uncomfortable weirdness of it all. ...
May 2, 2010
Help! I can't operate a thing in my hi-tech new flat
You could use the cooker’s controls to fly a US spy drone. But to make a shepherd’s pie? Not in a million years
In the olden days it was easy to make a television work. You plugged an aerial cable into the back, then bashed the top with your fist until, eventually, Hughie Green stopped jumping up and down. Things have changed. Have you tried to make a modern TV work? It cannot be done. No, don’t argue; it can’t. You have to get a man round and then it still won’t work because you have absolutely no idea what to press on the remote-control device.
I am looking now at the plipper thing for the TV in my office. It has 32 buttons on it, including one marked “COMPO/(rgb 8)”. Any idea what that does? I haven’t. I do understand the one marked “Power”, but this does not actually turn the television on. So far as I can tell, nothing does, which is why, for three years, it has been off. Frankly, for getting the news I’d have been better off building a chain of beacons.
Then there is the world of the mobile phone. Sometimes my wife asks me to answer her Raspberry and not once in a year have I been able to do so before the caller rings off. To my way of thinking, it’s not a communication device. It’s a sex toy for geeks. A laptop enthusiast’s Rabbit.
However, my life took a dramatic turn for the worse last week because I took delivery of a new flat in London. It’s been done up by a developer and fitted with every single item from every single gadget magazine in the universe. This means I cannot operate a single thing. Nothing, d’you hear? Nothing at all.
Let us take, for example, the old-fashioned pleasure of making a cup of coffee. For many years this involved putting some water in a kettle and boiling it. But now kettles are seen as messy, which is why my new flat has a multi-buttoned aluminium panel set into the wall. The idea is that you fill it with beans and the boiling water is instant. Sounds great, but the instruction book is 400 pages long and I’m sorry but if I waded through that, my longing for a cup of coffee would be replaced by a fervent need for a quart of armagnac.
The coffee machine, though, is the tip of the iceberg. There’s a music system that can beam any radio station in the world into any room. Last night I selected a classic rock station from San Francisco and was enjoying very much the non-stop stream of Supertramp, until I wanted to go to bed. This meant turning the system off and, for me at least, that is impossible.
Normally, of course, you just hit the offending electronic good with a hammer or throw it on the floor — this works well for alarm clocks in hotel rooms — but I was holding a remote-control device. Smashing that into a million pieces, I realised, would not stop the noise. I needed to find the actual box and I couldn’t. So the only solution was to fly to California ... and burn the radio station down. ...
Help! I can't operate a thing in my hi-tech new flat
You could use the cooker’s controls to fly a US spy drone. But to make a shepherd’s pie? Not in a million years
In the olden days it was easy to make a television work. You plugged an aerial cable into the back, then bashed the top with your fist until, eventually, Hughie Green stopped jumping up and down. Things have changed. Have you tried to make a modern TV work? It cannot be done. No, don’t argue; it can’t. You have to get a man round and then it still won’t work because you have absolutely no idea what to press on the remote-control device.
I am looking now at the plipper thing for the TV in my office. It has 32 buttons on it, including one marked “COMPO/(rgb 8)”. Any idea what that does? I haven’t. I do understand the one marked “Power”, but this does not actually turn the television on. So far as I can tell, nothing does, which is why, for three years, it has been off. Frankly, for getting the news I’d have been better off building a chain of beacons.
Then there is the world of the mobile phone. Sometimes my wife asks me to answer her Raspberry and not once in a year have I been able to do so before the caller rings off. To my way of thinking, it’s not a communication device. It’s a sex toy for geeks. A laptop enthusiast’s Rabbit.
However, my life took a dramatic turn for the worse last week because I took delivery of a new flat in London. It’s been done up by a developer and fitted with every single item from every single gadget magazine in the universe. This means I cannot operate a single thing. Nothing, d’you hear? Nothing at all.
Let us take, for example, the old-fashioned pleasure of making a cup of coffee. For many years this involved putting some water in a kettle and boiling it. But now kettles are seen as messy, which is why my new flat has a multi-buttoned aluminium panel set into the wall. The idea is that you fill it with beans and the boiling water is instant. Sounds great, but the instruction book is 400 pages long and I’m sorry but if I waded through that, my longing for a cup of coffee would be replaced by a fervent need for a quart of armagnac.
The coffee machine, though, is the tip of the iceberg. There’s a music system that can beam any radio station in the world into any room. Last night I selected a classic rock station from San Francisco and was enjoying very much the non-stop stream of Supertramp, until I wanted to go to bed. This meant turning the system off and, for me at least, that is impossible.
Normally, of course, you just hit the offending electronic good with a hammer or throw it on the floor — this works well for alarm clocks in hotel rooms — but I was holding a remote-control device. Smashing that into a million pieces, I realised, would not stop the noise. I needed to find the actual box and I couldn’t. So the only solution was to fly to California ... and burn the radio station down. ...
Banksy gives band £200k painting 'in apology for stealing their name'
Banksy, the graffiti artist, gave a £200,000 painting to a band after he accidentally "stole" their name as the title to his new film, Exit Through the Gift Shop.
Banksy, the graffiti artist, gave a £200,000 painting to a band after he accidentally "stole" their name as the title to his new film, Exit Through the Gift Shop.
BBC debate was a cross between Songs of Praise and Over the Rainbow
I half expected the loser to hand his shoes to Dimbleby at the end before jetting off into the sky
Charlie Brooker
Thursday 29 April 2010
If the leadership debates were supermarkets – which they're not – ITV's would be Tesco, Sky's would be Morrisons, and the BBC's offering would be Waitrose. The ITV debate felt like a 1990s gameshow whose rules required Alastair Stewart to bellow "Mr Clegg!", "Mr Brown!" or "Mr Cameron!" every thirty seconds; the Sky studio was a poky black cave cluttered with discarded British Airways tail fins and dwarfed by an immense Sky logo. With its mix of cavernous space and high-tech backdrops, the BBC debate resembled a cross between Songs of Praise and current Saturday night talent-show splurge Over the Rainbow: I half expected the loser to hand his shoes to Dimbleby at the end before jetting off into the sky on a rocket-powered podium.
The chief topic was the economy, a subject upon which I have such a poor grasp that from my ignorant perspective all three men may as well have been debating the best way to kidnap a space wraith. Cameron proposed 'efficiency savings' which seemed to boil down to a war on unnecessary leaflets; Brown boomed that this would shrink the economy by £6bn and risk a double-dip recession. Clegg didn't care what happened as long as it was fair. He proposed some kind of cross-party economic fairness committee which, as secret fellowships go, sounds about as much fun as a cardboard-licking party.
Clegg was big on fairness generally. Fairness and difference. He used so many distancing tactics – references to "these two", phrases like "there they go again", constant calls to "get beyond political point-scoring" – he may as well have thrown in a "hark at these arseholes" at the end for good measure. It's a tactic that largely works: he sometimes came across as a slightly exasperated translator sadly explaining to his fellow earthmen in the audience that these two visiting Gallifreyan dignitaries were well-meaning but essentially wrong. ...
Selected commentage:
... greendragonreprised
30 Apr 2010, 9:38AM
Love the Stargate Atlantis reference.
At one point Camerson said 1% of public spending was on leafloets from the council, or words to that effect. There speaks a man who has never had to balance a budget in his life. Not an effing clue.
If he's elected I only hope the third world lets us join because we're heading to the stone age.
Kikaboka
30 Apr 2010, 10:05AM
Exactly.
Upon seeing the polls this morning, my thoughts were:
"Did I watch a different debate? I saw a massive orange condom with dead eyes get rinsed by Clegg and Brown. When did Cameron win?"
comping
30 Apr 2010, 10:16AM
'He often wore a face like the Fat Controller trying to wee through a Hula Hoop without splashing the sides, in fact'.
Think of his sex face.
Now try to erase it from memory.
Poor Samantha.
ChocLick
30 Apr 2010, 10:25AM
Following the overblown 'bigotgate' media piss-fight, which saw him force-fed fistfuls of shame, it was vaguely impressive to see him standing at a podium instead of screaming on a ledge.
Brown actually seeemed invigorated by it all. He reminds me a bit of Tik Tok from Return to Oz and last night he was doing that spinny arm thing while the other two watched in awe.
My son sumed up Cameron last night for me "That man has a Fibby Face".
kendrew
30 Apr 2010, 10:32AM
Charlie as ever has his finger on the concealed pulse; how anyone, commentator, punter, journo can get worked up about these non events is beyond me. Politics has now beyond doubt strayed into tele storyline territory.
I mean you couldnt write this fuck stuff; Armando lannuci must be hard put trying to keep up with life imitating art. What a shower; Creature Campbell back in the swamp churning out the political hardcore for Gordon to use to titillate the dyed in the wool Labour unfortunates.
It is so depressing that these are the best that Britan can produce to run our affairs; fortunately it matters not a jot who will be in number 10 on the 7th May.
Sputnik2301
30 Apr 2010, 10:57AM
I've been to quite a few cardboard licking parties and they all turned out to be fairly cosmic.
Although that may have had something to do with what the cardboard was marinated in before hand
o_0
Looking forward to your election night coverage!
NeonMessiah
30 Apr 2010, 1:13PM
Brown, Cameron or Clegg..hmmm
It's like chosing to be hung, drawn, or quartered.
Suicide is painless. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
I half expected the loser to hand his shoes to Dimbleby at the end before jetting off into the sky
Charlie Brooker
Thursday 29 April 2010
If the leadership debates were supermarkets – which they're not – ITV's would be Tesco, Sky's would be Morrisons, and the BBC's offering would be Waitrose. The ITV debate felt like a 1990s gameshow whose rules required Alastair Stewart to bellow "Mr Clegg!", "Mr Brown!" or "Mr Cameron!" every thirty seconds; the Sky studio was a poky black cave cluttered with discarded British Airways tail fins and dwarfed by an immense Sky logo. With its mix of cavernous space and high-tech backdrops, the BBC debate resembled a cross between Songs of Praise and current Saturday night talent-show splurge Over the Rainbow: I half expected the loser to hand his shoes to Dimbleby at the end before jetting off into the sky on a rocket-powered podium.
The chief topic was the economy, a subject upon which I have such a poor grasp that from my ignorant perspective all three men may as well have been debating the best way to kidnap a space wraith. Cameron proposed 'efficiency savings' which seemed to boil down to a war on unnecessary leaflets; Brown boomed that this would shrink the economy by £6bn and risk a double-dip recession. Clegg didn't care what happened as long as it was fair. He proposed some kind of cross-party economic fairness committee which, as secret fellowships go, sounds about as much fun as a cardboard-licking party.
Clegg was big on fairness generally. Fairness and difference. He used so many distancing tactics – references to "these two", phrases like "there they go again", constant calls to "get beyond political point-scoring" – he may as well have thrown in a "hark at these arseholes" at the end for good measure. It's a tactic that largely works: he sometimes came across as a slightly exasperated translator sadly explaining to his fellow earthmen in the audience that these two visiting Gallifreyan dignitaries were well-meaning but essentially wrong. ...
Selected commentage:
... greendragonreprised
30 Apr 2010, 9:38AM
Love the Stargate Atlantis reference.
At one point Camerson said 1% of public spending was on leafloets from the council, or words to that effect. There speaks a man who has never had to balance a budget in his life. Not an effing clue.
If he's elected I only hope the third world lets us join because we're heading to the stone age.
Kikaboka
30 Apr 2010, 10:05AM
Exactly.
Upon seeing the polls this morning, my thoughts were:
"Did I watch a different debate? I saw a massive orange condom with dead eyes get rinsed by Clegg and Brown. When did Cameron win?"
comping
30 Apr 2010, 10:16AM
'He often wore a face like the Fat Controller trying to wee through a Hula Hoop without splashing the sides, in fact'.
Think of his sex face.
Now try to erase it from memory.
Poor Samantha.
ChocLick
30 Apr 2010, 10:25AM
Following the overblown 'bigotgate' media piss-fight, which saw him force-fed fistfuls of shame, it was vaguely impressive to see him standing at a podium instead of screaming on a ledge.
Brown actually seeemed invigorated by it all. He reminds me a bit of Tik Tok from Return to Oz and last night he was doing that spinny arm thing while the other two watched in awe.
My son sumed up Cameron last night for me "That man has a Fibby Face".
kendrew
30 Apr 2010, 10:32AM
Charlie as ever has his finger on the concealed pulse; how anyone, commentator, punter, journo can get worked up about these non events is beyond me. Politics has now beyond doubt strayed into tele storyline territory.
I mean you couldnt write this fuck stuff; Armando lannuci must be hard put trying to keep up with life imitating art. What a shower; Creature Campbell back in the swamp churning out the political hardcore for Gordon to use to titillate the dyed in the wool Labour unfortunates.
It is so depressing that these are the best that Britan can produce to run our affairs; fortunately it matters not a jot who will be in number 10 on the 7th May.
Sputnik2301
30 Apr 2010, 10:57AM
I've been to quite a few cardboard licking parties and they all turned out to be fairly cosmic.
Although that may have had something to do with what the cardboard was marinated in before hand
o_0
Looking forward to your election night coverage!
NeonMessiah
30 Apr 2010, 1:13PM
Brown, Cameron or Clegg..hmmm
It's like chosing to be hung, drawn, or quartered.
Suicide is painless. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
... As you can see qualitatively, our provocative dress didn't really seem to effect the frequency of earthquakes. There were 47 earthquakes on the 26th, which falls well within the 95% confidence interval for number of earthquakes (about 0 to 148).
So did our cleavage/thighs/ankles/hair increase the number of earthquakes? No.
"But Jen!" the internet cried, "what about the 6.5 magnitude earthquake in Taiwan? Surely that shows our bosoms have supernatural powers!"
Sorry to be a buzzkill - hey, I'd like magical control over plate tectonics too - but that single earthquake wasn't significant. Earthquakes between 6.0 and 6.9 magnitude happen, on average, 134 times a year. That means we had about a 37% probability of an earthquake of that magnitude happening on boobquake just due to chance alone - hardly an improbable event that needs to be attributed to an angry deity.
But just to be safe, let's look at the overall distribution of the magnitudes of earthquakes on boobquake. Did they differ from the types of earthquakes we've seen since February? These samples span from the entirety of the event - midnight at the earliest time zone to midnight at the last time zone - so the data encompasses more than 24 hours. ...
So did our cleavage/thighs/ankles/hair increase the number of earthquakes? No.
"But Jen!" the internet cried, "what about the 6.5 magnitude earthquake in Taiwan? Surely that shows our bosoms have supernatural powers!"
Sorry to be a buzzkill - hey, I'd like magical control over plate tectonics too - but that single earthquake wasn't significant. Earthquakes between 6.0 and 6.9 magnitude happen, on average, 134 times a year. That means we had about a 37% probability of an earthquake of that magnitude happening on boobquake just due to chance alone - hardly an improbable event that needs to be attributed to an angry deity.
But just to be safe, let's look at the overall distribution of the magnitudes of earthquakes on boobquake. Did they differ from the types of earthquakes we've seen since February? These samples span from the entirety of the event - midnight at the earliest time zone to midnight at the last time zone - so the data encompasses more than 24 hours. ...
Monday, April 26, 2010
And the boobquake experiment has begun...
I won't be able to make a blog post until boobquake is over, but I will be tweeting and posting photos throughout the day. Feel free to talk about your boobquake adventures in this post*!
Check back here after boobquake is over around the world (6am EST) for the results!
*No, that does not mean I need an update of every single earthquake that has happened so far. No, the Taiwan earthquake is not statistically significant - yet. If we get many of a similar magnitude in the next 24 hours, then we might start worshipping the power of immodesty.
Posted by Jen at 12:34 AM
Labels: boobs, science, skepticism
And the boobquake experiment has begun...
I won't be able to make a blog post until boobquake is over, but I will be tweeting and posting photos throughout the day. Feel free to talk about your boobquake adventures in this post*!
Check back here after boobquake is over around the world (6am EST) for the results!
*No, that does not mean I need an update of every single earthquake that has happened so far. No, the Taiwan earthquake is not statistically significant - yet. If we get many of a similar magnitude in the next 24 hours, then we might start worshipping the power of immodesty.
Posted by Jen at 12:34 AM
Labels: boobs, science, skepticism
... I just want to apologize if this comes off as demeaning toward women. To be honest, it started as silly joke that I hurriedly fired off since I was about to miss the beginning of House. I never thought it would get the attention it did. If I would have known, I would have spent more time being careful about my wording.
That being said, I don't think the event is completely contrary to feminist ideals. I'm asking women to wear their most "immodest" outfit that they already would wear, but to coordinate it all on the same day for the sake of the experiment. Heck, just showing an ankle would be considered immodest by some people. I don't want to force people out of their comfort zones, because I believe women have the right to choose how they want to dress. Please don't pressure women to participate if they don't want to. If men ogle, that's the fault of the men, not me for dressing how I like. If I want to a show a little cleavage or joke about my boobs, that's my prerogative.
I also hate the ideal of "big boobs are always better!" The cleavage joke was just a result of me personally having cleavage, and that being my choice of immodesty. And I thought "boobquake" just sounded funny. Really, it's not supposed to be serious activism that is going to revolutionize women's rights, but just a bit of fun juvenile humor. I'm a firm believer that when someone says something so stupid and hateful, serious discourse isn't going to accomplish anything - sometimes light-hearted mockery is worthwhile.
Anyway, I'm not forcing anyone to agree with me. Maybe I am failing at Feminism 101, or maybe I'm just taking a different approach.
And to the scientists who are concerned with my methods - don't worry, I fully plan on doing some statistics after the event. I know many earthquakes happen on a daily basis, so we're looking to see if Boobquake significantly increases the number or severity of earthquakes. Or if an earthquake strikes West Lafayette, IN and only kills me, that may be good evidence of God's wrath as well (I'm not too concerned). And yes, I know I need a larger sample size to make this good science. Maybe I'll include Mardi gras in my calculations.
That being said, I don't think the event is completely contrary to feminist ideals. I'm asking women to wear their most "immodest" outfit that they already would wear, but to coordinate it all on the same day for the sake of the experiment. Heck, just showing an ankle would be considered immodest by some people. I don't want to force people out of their comfort zones, because I believe women have the right to choose how they want to dress. Please don't pressure women to participate if they don't want to. If men ogle, that's the fault of the men, not me for dressing how I like. If I want to a show a little cleavage or joke about my boobs, that's my prerogative.
I also hate the ideal of "big boobs are always better!" The cleavage joke was just a result of me personally having cleavage, and that being my choice of immodesty. And I thought "boobquake" just sounded funny. Really, it's not supposed to be serious activism that is going to revolutionize women's rights, but just a bit of fun juvenile humor. I'm a firm believer that when someone says something so stupid and hateful, serious discourse isn't going to accomplish anything - sometimes light-hearted mockery is worthwhile.
Anyway, I'm not forcing anyone to agree with me. Maybe I am failing at Feminism 101, or maybe I'm just taking a different approach.
And to the scientists who are concerned with my methods - don't worry, I fully plan on doing some statistics after the event. I know many earthquakes happen on a daily basis, so we're looking to see if Boobquake significantly increases the number or severity of earthquakes. Or if an earthquake strikes West Lafayette, IN and only kills me, that may be good evidence of God's wrath as well (I'm not too concerned). And yes, I know I need a larger sample size to make this good science. Maybe I'll include Mardi gras in my calculations.
Tremble before Boobquake!
April 26th, 2010
If you are a geek, a skeptic, or a man, then you’ve probably heard that today is Boobquake: a day for women around the world to show off their cleavage in an attempt to debunk a fundamentalist Iranian cleric who blames natural seismic events on women dressing immodestly.
In other words, all that shaking and jiggling in the ground is caused by… well, I don’t need to belabor the point.
To be clear, I happily endorse both of these things (the cleavage and the debunking). But I do have one niggling doubt. Bear with me here…
First, last week an Islamic cleric in Iran said that all the earthquakes occurring in that country are caused by women dressing "immodestly". Yes, this same screwed-up thinking that brought us the Taliban and the idea that burning, throwing acid upon, and beheading women is all their own fault for being, y’know, women, gives us this:
"Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes… What can we do to avoid being buried under the rubble?" Sedighi [the cleric] asked during a prayer sermon Friday. "There is no other solution but to take refuge in religion and to adapt our lives to Islam’s moral codes."
I got news for you, Sedighi: if I were God, I’d be throwing more earthquakes your way for the way you treat women. In fact, I’d send a few thousand mini ones that open the Earth and just swallow up the twinkie clerics who say such profoundly horrid things.
Serious note: I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: not all cultures are created equal. Any culture that sweepingly and maniacally oppresses half their population is what I would call evil. Moral relativism be damned: that kind of crap is wrong, plain and simple.
Now, the response on the skeptical and science blogs was pretty good; mockery, for the most part, which is what this kind of insanity deserves (Maria at Skepchick, for example, took this opportunity to debunk myths about breasts). But Blag Hag, a female blogger, came up with an interesting idea: Boobquake. The idea is for women around the world to show off their assets today, Monday, April 26, in an attempt to debunk the cleric. When there is no earthquake today, it will show the cleric for what he is: a sexist jerk* mired in an ancient and ridiculous mode of thinking.
I like the idea of Boobquake for many reasons. It’s an excellent display of physical mockery, which is a great way to raise awareness. It also resonates in American culture because we have so many people who are so twisted up about such things morally; I support poking them in the eye with this kind of thing as well. Also, I’m unapologetically a heterosexual man, so c’mon. ...
*You didn’t seriously think I’d call him a boob, did you?
Ta much, dear Anneliese
April 26th, 2010
If you are a geek, a skeptic, or a man, then you’ve probably heard that today is Boobquake: a day for women around the world to show off their cleavage in an attempt to debunk a fundamentalist Iranian cleric who blames natural seismic events on women dressing immodestly.
In other words, all that shaking and jiggling in the ground is caused by… well, I don’t need to belabor the point.
To be clear, I happily endorse both of these things (the cleavage and the debunking). But I do have one niggling doubt. Bear with me here…
First, last week an Islamic cleric in Iran said that all the earthquakes occurring in that country are caused by women dressing "immodestly". Yes, this same screwed-up thinking that brought us the Taliban and the idea that burning, throwing acid upon, and beheading women is all their own fault for being, y’know, women, gives us this:
"Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes… What can we do to avoid being buried under the rubble?" Sedighi [the cleric] asked during a prayer sermon Friday. "There is no other solution but to take refuge in religion and to adapt our lives to Islam’s moral codes."
I got news for you, Sedighi: if I were God, I’d be throwing more earthquakes your way for the way you treat women. In fact, I’d send a few thousand mini ones that open the Earth and just swallow up the twinkie clerics who say such profoundly horrid things.
Serious note: I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: not all cultures are created equal. Any culture that sweepingly and maniacally oppresses half their population is what I would call evil. Moral relativism be damned: that kind of crap is wrong, plain and simple.
Now, the response on the skeptical and science blogs was pretty good; mockery, for the most part, which is what this kind of insanity deserves (Maria at Skepchick, for example, took this opportunity to debunk myths about breasts). But Blag Hag, a female blogger, came up with an interesting idea: Boobquake. The idea is for women around the world to show off their assets today, Monday, April 26, in an attempt to debunk the cleric. When there is no earthquake today, it will show the cleric for what he is: a sexist jerk* mired in an ancient and ridiculous mode of thinking.
I like the idea of Boobquake for many reasons. It’s an excellent display of physical mockery, which is a great way to raise awareness. It also resonates in American culture because we have so many people who are so twisted up about such things morally; I support poking them in the eye with this kind of thing as well. Also, I’m unapologetically a heterosexual man, so c’mon. ...
*You didn’t seriously think I’d call him a boob, did you?
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Brace yourself
Category: Weirdness
Posted on: April 26, 2010 9:38 AM, by PZ Myers
It's the day of the Boobquake.
It's amazing how much press this event is getting. I was going to say that if we do get a flurry of earthquakes today, the women are going to be insufferable…but even if it's an ordinary day geologically, they'll have managed to create a small mediaquake. ...
... Posted by: https://www.google.com/accounts/o8/id?id=AItOawmVT1LBhwmO9ej9LNg7a5e9d-AVJ8ezfmE | April 26, 2010 10:25 AM
Some say the world will end in boobquake,
Some say in booty shaking.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor boobies.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction big booty
Is also great
And would suffice.
- With apologies to Robert Frost ...
... Posted by: Cuttlefish, OM | April 26, 2010 11:19 AM
Whether B or C or D-cup
It's a tempest in a teacup--
It was just a silly comment; now it's gotten out of hand
But in truth, the intertubies
Are composed of naught but boobies
(Metaphorical and literal), we all must understand. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Category: Weirdness
Posted on: April 26, 2010 9:38 AM, by PZ Myers
It's the day of the Boobquake.
It's amazing how much press this event is getting. I was going to say that if we do get a flurry of earthquakes today, the women are going to be insufferable…but even if it's an ordinary day geologically, they'll have managed to create a small mediaquake. ...
... Posted by: https://www.google.com/accounts/o8/id?id=AItOawmVT1LBhwmO9ej9LNg7a5e9d-AVJ8ezfmE | April 26, 2010 10:25 AM
Some say the world will end in boobquake,
Some say in booty shaking.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor boobies.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction big booty
Is also great
And would suffice.
- With apologies to Robert Frost ...
... Posted by: Cuttlefish, OM | April 26, 2010 11:19 AM
Whether B or C or D-cup
It's a tempest in a teacup--
It was just a silly comment; now it's gotten out of hand
But in truth, the intertubies
Are composed of naught but boobies
(Metaphorical and literal), we all must understand. ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Boobquake fails to destroy planet
Jubs versus Iranian cleric: Immodesty vindicated
By Lester Haines
26th April 2010
Planet Earth has not (yet) been destroyed by today's terrifying Boobquake experiment - one Indiana student's response to Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi's insistence that immodestly dressed women provoke earthquakes. ...
... McCreight's picture speaks for itself, and thousands of other females have thrown their weight behind the effort to either provoke a major catastrophe or prove that Iranian clerics have a poor grasp of the fundamentals of plate tectonics.
McCreight's earth-moving efforts can be followed on Facebook and Twitter.
Jubs versus Iranian cleric: Immodesty vindicated
By Lester Haines
26th April 2010
Planet Earth has not (yet) been destroyed by today's terrifying Boobquake experiment - one Indiana student's response to Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi's insistence that immodestly dressed women provoke earthquakes. ...
... McCreight's picture speaks for itself, and thousands of other females have thrown their weight behind the effort to either provoke a major catastrophe or prove that Iranian clerics have a poor grasp of the fundamentals of plate tectonics.
McCreight's earth-moving efforts can be followed on Facebook and Twitter.
Random Ramblings of an Insomniac: Boobquakes, dangerous squirrels, things we already knew about men
April 25, 2010
in International incidents, Random crap, mixing medications, no one thinks this is funny but me, terrible titles, this blog cures cancer, why the terrorists hate us
I have insomnia so I’m getting a head-start on National #Boobquake Day; a day when women are encouraged to wear their most immodest outfit to see if immodest women do, in fact, cause earthquakes as reported by Iranian media. Apparently this is a real concern. So I put on my most low-cut corset and used my computer camera to take some pictures but my cat kept getting in the way and I was all “WHY MUST YOU BE IN EVERY PICTURE?” and then Victor woke up and wanted to know why I was screaming and taking half-naked pictures of myself and I was all “Uh…it’s an experiment to see if my boobs can create earthquakes?” and Victor just stared at me and shook his head in confusion and shuffled back to bed and I’m all “I’M DOING THIS FOR SCIENCE, ASSHOLE“.
It was weird though because I always heard that it was girls who didn’t understand science. ...
April 25, 2010
in International incidents, Random crap, mixing medications, no one thinks this is funny but me, terrible titles, this blog cures cancer, why the terrorists hate us
I have insomnia so I’m getting a head-start on National #Boobquake Day; a day when women are encouraged to wear their most immodest outfit to see if immodest women do, in fact, cause earthquakes as reported by Iranian media. Apparently this is a real concern. So I put on my most low-cut corset and used my computer camera to take some pictures but my cat kept getting in the way and I was all “WHY MUST YOU BE IN EVERY PICTURE?” and then Victor woke up and wanted to know why I was screaming and taking half-naked pictures of myself and I was all “Uh…it’s an experiment to see if my boobs can create earthquakes?” and Victor just stared at me and shook his head in confusion and shuffled back to bed and I’m all “I’M DOING THIS FOR SCIENCE, ASSHOLE“.
It was weird though because I always heard that it was girls who didn’t understand science. ...
Boobquake is almost upon us, which means the media is super interested in covering the end of the world. I just thought I'd let you know what shows I'll be appearing on in the next twenty four hours, since they're... uh, kind of huge. And if you need more motivation to watch, yes, I'll be showing cleavage - at least as much as is appropriate for TV. ...
The mullah's right: I'm a walking natural disaster
By LINLEY BONIFACE - The Dominion Post
Last updated 07:57 26/04/2010
On Friday, I was about to don my usual work clothes for a day at the office - fishnet stockings, an animal print corset, crotchless leather boy shorts and a pair of thigh-high fetish boots - when I suddenly thought: but am I just being selfish? Am I really prepared for the consequences of unleashing my gorgeousness upon the world? ...
... * Munich Hailstorm, 1986. In many ways, Iranian clerics would have approved of the 1980s. For an entire decade, most Western women's bodies were entirely obscured by jumpsuits, parachute pants, legwarmers, fingerless gloves and towering, torso-obscuring bubble perms. Owing to the malevolent influence of jazzercise, however, I once walked from my car to a gym in nothing but a stripy green and pink leotard, thus triggering a hailstorm that felled vast tracts of forest and caused millions of deutschmarks worth of damage. Mea culpa, Munich.
* Oklahoma Tornado Outbreak, 1999. No-one has ever satisfactorily explained why 74 tornadoes ripped through the American Midwest in the spring of 1999. Until now, that is. I blame that Lycra dress on the Spice Girls.
* Kolka-Karmodon Rock Ice Slide, 2002. Thanks to the boob-enhancing qualities of pregnancy, every shirt I wore in 2002 gave me the cleavage of a medieval serving wench. And so it was that a chunk of the Kolka Glacier collapsed, burying a blameless Russian village under ice and snow. Sorry about that.
* Mt Ruapehu Lahar, 2007. What can I say? It was a present. I took it off before anyone could get killed, didn't I?
I can't tell you how much better I feel, having got that off my chest. Although, of course, natural disasters aren't all we have to worry about, according to another prominent international leader. Bolivian President Evo Morales said last week that men who eat chicken not only go bald but "experience deviances in being men", whatever that might mean.
It's all very apocalyptic. If both Sedighi's and Morales' predictions turn out to be correct, I fear for the future of our species. Perhaps the world will end not with a bang, or with a whimper, but with a sluttily dressed chicken.
By LINLEY BONIFACE - The Dominion Post
Last updated 07:57 26/04/2010
On Friday, I was about to don my usual work clothes for a day at the office - fishnet stockings, an animal print corset, crotchless leather boy shorts and a pair of thigh-high fetish boots - when I suddenly thought: but am I just being selfish? Am I really prepared for the consequences of unleashing my gorgeousness upon the world? ...
... * Munich Hailstorm, 1986. In many ways, Iranian clerics would have approved of the 1980s. For an entire decade, most Western women's bodies were entirely obscured by jumpsuits, parachute pants, legwarmers, fingerless gloves and towering, torso-obscuring bubble perms. Owing to the malevolent influence of jazzercise, however, I once walked from my car to a gym in nothing but a stripy green and pink leotard, thus triggering a hailstorm that felled vast tracts of forest and caused millions of deutschmarks worth of damage. Mea culpa, Munich.
* Oklahoma Tornado Outbreak, 1999. No-one has ever satisfactorily explained why 74 tornadoes ripped through the American Midwest in the spring of 1999. Until now, that is. I blame that Lycra dress on the Spice Girls.
* Kolka-Karmodon Rock Ice Slide, 2002. Thanks to the boob-enhancing qualities of pregnancy, every shirt I wore in 2002 gave me the cleavage of a medieval serving wench. And so it was that a chunk of the Kolka Glacier collapsed, burying a blameless Russian village under ice and snow. Sorry about that.
* Mt Ruapehu Lahar, 2007. What can I say? It was a present. I took it off before anyone could get killed, didn't I?
I can't tell you how much better I feel, having got that off my chest. Although, of course, natural disasters aren't all we have to worry about, according to another prominent international leader. Bolivian President Evo Morales said last week that men who eat chicken not only go bald but "experience deviances in being men", whatever that might mean.
It's all very apocalyptic. If both Sedighi's and Morales' predictions turn out to be correct, I fear for the future of our species. Perhaps the world will end not with a bang, or with a whimper, but with a sluttily dressed chicken.
Boobquake to shake Bangalore
By: Priyanjali Ghose
2010-04-26
Bangalore
Bangalore girls say they would not mind wearing low necklines today to support worldwide protests against Tehran cleric who blames scantily clad women for causing earthquakes. Priyanjali Ghose reports
Boobquake, an American student's online worldwide campaign on Monday against an Iranian cleric's comment that immodestly dressed women tantalize men and increase earthquake, evoked mass global online responses and also attracted mixed reactions from Indian activists. Women in Bangalore understandably do not want to [be] left behind. ...
By: Priyanjali Ghose
2010-04-26
Bangalore
Bangalore girls say they would not mind wearing low necklines today to support worldwide protests against Tehran cleric who blames scantily clad women for causing earthquakes. Priyanjali Ghose reports
Boobquake, an American student's online worldwide campaign on Monday against an Iranian cleric's comment that immodestly dressed women tantalize men and increase earthquake, evoked mass global online responses and also attracted mixed reactions from Indian activists. Women in Bangalore understandably do not want to [be] left behind. ...
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy!!!!!!1!!!!!eleven!!!!!!
Women can have both b( o ) ( o )bs and brains!
WTF?!
Women can have both b( o ) ( o )bs and brains!
WTF?!
Ta much, dear Edosan
Allus happeh t'see this here critter agin.
Purdue senior organizes 'Boobquake' demonstration to refute imam's claims
By DAVID K. LI
Last Updated: 9:37 AM, April 23, 2010
... "Many women who do not dress modestly . . . lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes," [Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi] said during a prayer in Tehran last week.
"What can we do to avoid being buried under the rubble? There is no other solution but to take refuge in religion and to adapt our lives to Islam's moral codes."
McCreight, through her blog, Blag Hag, is calling for ladies to flash a little more leg (or other flesh) than usual, so Sedighi will know science stacks up well against his goofy geological theories.
"What we want is for women to wear something [Monday] that's a little more immodest than what they'd normally wear, maybe shorts or a low-cut shirt," McCreight told The Post yesterday.
McCreight, 22, says she isn't going overboard in her bra-busting protest. The genetics major plans to dress in a tank top, a shade sexier than her normal T-shirt look.
"It's a personal statement for anyone who wants to take part in what they consider 'immodest,' " she said. "To some people, showing ankle might be 'immodest,' and that'd be fine."
"The main thing is to show we don't need to put up with this kind of supernatural anti-science. Sometimes the best way to attack this is with comic mockery."
More than 45,000 presumably female readers of McCreight's Web site have volunteered to take part in Boobquake.
So what happens if the world's flesh-flashing women do spawn deadly quakes?
"A lot of my guy friends are saying, 'Well, at least that'd be a good way to go out,' " said McCreight.
By DAVID K. LI
Last Updated: 9:37 AM, April 23, 2010
... "Many women who do not dress modestly . . . lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes," [Iranian cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi] said during a prayer in Tehran last week.
"What can we do to avoid being buried under the rubble? There is no other solution but to take refuge in religion and to adapt our lives to Islam's moral codes."
McCreight, through her blog, Blag Hag, is calling for ladies to flash a little more leg (or other flesh) than usual, so Sedighi will know science stacks up well against his goofy geological theories.
"What we want is for women to wear something [Monday] that's a little more immodest than what they'd normally wear, maybe shorts or a low-cut shirt," McCreight told The Post yesterday.
McCreight, 22, says she isn't going overboard in her bra-busting protest. The genetics major plans to dress in a tank top, a shade sexier than her normal T-shirt look.
"It's a personal statement for anyone who wants to take part in what they consider 'immodest,' " she said. "To some people, showing ankle might be 'immodest,' and that'd be fine."
"The main thing is to show we don't need to put up with this kind of supernatural anti-science. Sometimes the best way to attack this is with comic mockery."
More than 45,000 presumably female readers of McCreight's Web site have volunteered to take part in Boobquake.
So what happens if the world's flesh-flashing women do spawn deadly quakes?
"A lot of my guy friends are saying, 'Well, at least that'd be a good way to go out,' " said McCreight.
What's in a name? For Simon Duncan's band, a £200,000 Banksy...
The group formerly known as Exit Through the Gift Shop receives an unexpected reward for acceding to graffiti artist's request
Vanessa Thorpe, arts and media correspondent
Sunday 25 April 2010
... "I am a drummer in a band that was called Exit Through the Gift Shop that I started with friends 18 months before I turned 40. It was a kind of midlife crisis, but we are still going, with a different line-up, and it has become a bit more serious," said Duncan, who agreed to change his band's name to Brace Yourself in an arrangement with Banksy.
"We had these hilarious emails from someone saying he was Banksy, but we didn't know if they were genuine," said Duncan. "Then a scruffy white van arrived. The driver had no idea what he was carrying."
The band plan to unveil their new name and backdrop, which shows the grim reaper riding a dodgem car, at a London gig this week.
"When we saw the painting we could not believe it," said Duncan. "It is the size of a double bed, for a start. We had to insure it, so a man from Sotheby's came over to see it in my loft. He said to me, 'This is surreal. I have just been valuing an 18th-century portrait in a stately home, but it is not as valuable as this.'"
The band have put the painting in storage at Sotheby's and will perform in front of a full-size copy.
The group formerly known as Exit Through the Gift Shop receives an unexpected reward for acceding to graffiti artist's request
Vanessa Thorpe, arts and media correspondent
Sunday 25 April 2010
... "I am a drummer in a band that was called Exit Through the Gift Shop that I started with friends 18 months before I turned 40. It was a kind of midlife crisis, but we are still going, with a different line-up, and it has become a bit more serious," said Duncan, who agreed to change his band's name to Brace Yourself in an arrangement with Banksy.
"We had these hilarious emails from someone saying he was Banksy, but we didn't know if they were genuine," said Duncan. "Then a scruffy white van arrived. The driver had no idea what he was carrying."
The band plan to unveil their new name and backdrop, which shows the grim reaper riding a dodgem car, at a London gig this week.
"When we saw the painting we could not believe it," said Duncan. "It is the size of a double bed, for a start. We had to insure it, so a man from Sotheby's came over to see it in my loft. He said to me, 'This is surreal. I have just been valuing an 18th-century portrait in a stately home, but it is not as valuable as this.'"
The band have put the painting in storage at Sotheby's and will perform in front of a full-size copy.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Changing The Pope's Itinerary
"Your Holiness, a moment please--we've made a couple changes
To the schedule you will follow while you're visiting this week.
It's really nothing, mostly--it just sort of rearranges
All the visits, cos a group or two would like to hear you speak."
"There's a group of rape survivors; there's a dozen men with AIDS;
There's two priests--a married couple--who are looking for your blessing
There's an epidemiologist, who says his courage fades
When he sees you're banning condoms when he knows the need is pressing"
"There's an hour with some "Hitchens" and another with some "Fry"
And between the two, expect to feel a modicum of shame
And then lastly, there's this "Jesus" bloke, who wants to ask you why,
You are doing all this stupid shit, and say it's in his name"
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Changing The Pope's Itinerary
"Your Holiness, a moment please--we've made a couple changes
To the schedule you will follow while you're visiting this week.
It's really nothing, mostly--it just sort of rearranges
All the visits, cos a group or two would like to hear you speak."
"There's a group of rape survivors; there's a dozen men with AIDS;
There's two priests--a married couple--who are looking for your blessing
There's an epidemiologist, who says his courage fades
When he sees you're banning condoms when he knows the need is pressing"
"There's an hour with some "Hitchens" and another with some "Fry"
And between the two, expect to feel a modicum of shame
And then lastly, there's this "Jesus" bloke, who wants to ask you why,
You are doing all this stupid shit, and say it's in his name"
Ta much, dear Anneliese
... "The inspiration came to me whilst I was dressing," announced Lucas; "it will be the thing in the next music-hall revue. All London will go mad over it. It's just a couplet; of course there will be other words, but they won't matter. Listen:
Cousin Teresa takes out Caesar,
Fido, Jock, and the big borzoi.
A lifting, catchy sort of refrain, you see, and big drum business on the two syllables of bor-zoi. It's immense. And I've thought out all the business of it; the singer will sing the first verse alone, then during the second verse Cousin Teresa will walk through, followed by four wooden dogs on wheels; Caesar will be an Irish terrier, Fido a black poodle, Jock a fox-terrier, and the borzoi, of course, will be a borzoi. During the third verse Cousin Teresa will come on alone, and the dogs will be drawn across by themselves from the opposite wing; then Cousin Teresa will catch on to the singer and go off-stage in one direction, while the dogs' procession goes off in the other, crossing en route, which is always very effective. There'll be a lot of applause there, and for the fourth verse Cousin Teresa will come on in sables and the dogs will all have coats on. Then I've got a great idea for the fifth verse; each of the dogs will be led on by a Nut, and Cousin Teresa will come on from the opposite side, crossing en route, always effective, and then she turns round and leads the whole lot of them off on a string, and all the time every one singing like mad:
Cousin Teresa takes out Caesar,
Fido, Jock, and the big borzoi.
Tum-Tum! Drum business on the two last syllables. I'm so excited, I shan't sleep a wink to-night. I'm off to-morrow by the ten-fifteen. I've wired to Hermanova to lunch with me."
If any of the rest of the family felt any excitement over the creation of Cousin Teresa, they were signally successful in concealing the fact.
"Poor Lucas does take his silly little ideas seriously," said Colonel Harrowcluff afterwards in the smoking-room. ...
Cousin Teresa takes out Caesar,
Fido, Jock, and the big borzoi.
A lifting, catchy sort of refrain, you see, and big drum business on the two syllables of bor-zoi. It's immense. And I've thought out all the business of it; the singer will sing the first verse alone, then during the second verse Cousin Teresa will walk through, followed by four wooden dogs on wheels; Caesar will be an Irish terrier, Fido a black poodle, Jock a fox-terrier, and the borzoi, of course, will be a borzoi. During the third verse Cousin Teresa will come on alone, and the dogs will be drawn across by themselves from the opposite wing; then Cousin Teresa will catch on to the singer and go off-stage in one direction, while the dogs' procession goes off in the other, crossing en route, which is always very effective. There'll be a lot of applause there, and for the fourth verse Cousin Teresa will come on in sables and the dogs will all have coats on. Then I've got a great idea for the fifth verse; each of the dogs will be led on by a Nut, and Cousin Teresa will come on from the opposite side, crossing en route, always effective, and then she turns round and leads the whole lot of them off on a string, and all the time every one singing like mad:
Cousin Teresa takes out Caesar,
Fido, Jock, and the big borzoi.
Tum-Tum! Drum business on the two last syllables. I'm so excited, I shan't sleep a wink to-night. I'm off to-morrow by the ten-fifteen. I've wired to Hermanova to lunch with me."
If any of the rest of the family felt any excitement over the creation of Cousin Teresa, they were signally successful in concealing the fact.
"Poor Lucas does take his silly little ideas seriously," said Colonel Harrowcluff afterwards in the smoking-room. ...
... Peter Tazelaar was under orders from the exiled Dutch queen, Wilhelmina, to slip into the country to extract two fellow countrymen to join the government-in-exile in Britain.
He and his fellow secret agents – Eric Hazelhoff Roelfzema and Bob Van der Stok – had often spent time at the seaside resort of Scheveningen, near The Hague, and knew that the Palace hotel there had been taken over by the Germans as a headquarters, and that every Friday night they held large and boisterous parties there.
Their plan was simple but audacious – approach Scheveningen in darkness by boat, and take Mr Tazelaar into the surf by dinghy, from where he could scramble ashore. Once there, he would strip off his wetsuit, to reveal his evening clothes underneath, to enable him to pose as a partygoer and slip past the sentries. ...
He and his fellow secret agents – Eric Hazelhoff Roelfzema and Bob Van der Stok – had often spent time at the seaside resort of Scheveningen, near The Hague, and knew that the Palace hotel there had been taken over by the Germans as a headquarters, and that every Friday night they held large and boisterous parties there.
Their plan was simple but audacious – approach Scheveningen in darkness by boat, and take Mr Tazelaar into the surf by dinghy, from where he could scramble ashore. Once there, he would strip off his wetsuit, to reveal his evening clothes underneath, to enable him to pose as a partygoer and slip past the sentries. ...
riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
I'd originally posted this 28 Mar 2010, 2.38 pm, but I have bumped it.
Guess why?
USA Translation To Jamaican
By Donmerican
Published Mar 1, 2003
... USA: Hors d'oeuvres.
JA: Ah wah dis likkle sinting yuh a gi me?
USA: I think something is wrong with Susan, she might have the flu.
JA: Lawd Gad, obeah tek up Suzie!
USA: Girl, those shoes are the bomb.
JA: Gyal, yuh roach killa dem a seh one out deh.
USA: Oh my gosh, I just broke Mom's expensive plate.
JA: Lawd mi Gad, mi bruk up Mama stoosh crackry.
USA: Aren't those pants a bit short?
JA: Yuh did a expect flood ar yuh tek yuh measurement inna wata?
USA: Why are you squeezing the mangoes like that?
JA: Lissen mi nuh, mi a beg yuh stap fingle-fingle up di mango dem.
USA: Sir, please don't throw my luggage like that.
JA: Aye buff teet bwoy, tap fling up-fling up mi bag dem suh [so] man.
USA: I wish you would quit lying.
JA: Tap di blinkin lyin, yuh ole liyad.
USA: Lift the hood off the car for me, John.
JA: Hey my yute, fly di bonnet! ...
By Donmerican
Published Mar 1, 2003
... USA: Hors d'oeuvres.
JA: Ah wah dis likkle sinting yuh a gi me?
USA: I think something is wrong with Susan, she might have the flu.
JA: Lawd Gad, obeah tek up Suzie!
USA: Girl, those shoes are the bomb.
JA: Gyal, yuh roach killa dem a seh one out deh.
USA: Oh my gosh, I just broke Mom's expensive plate.
JA: Lawd mi Gad, mi bruk up Mama stoosh crackry.
USA: Aren't those pants a bit short?
JA: Yuh did a expect flood ar yuh tek yuh measurement inna wata?
USA: Why are you squeezing the mangoes like that?
JA: Lissen mi nuh, mi a beg yuh stap fingle-fingle up di mango dem.
USA: Sir, please don't throw my luggage like that.
JA: Aye buff teet bwoy, tap fling up-fling up mi bag dem suh [so] man.
USA: I wish you would quit lying.
JA: Tap di blinkin lyin, yuh ole liyad.
USA: Lift the hood off the car for me, John.
JA: Hey my yute, fly di bonnet! ...
Jesus Christ returns to Earth – punches Pope in face, leaves again
March 18, 2009 by William K. Wolfrum
Jesus Christ – a leading figure in modern Christianity – returned to Earth today after a nearly 2,000-year hiatus. The Second Coming was cut short, however, as Christ, 37, went directly to the Vatican and punched Pope Benedict XVI square in the mouth. Jesus then ascended back to heaven.
While a bloodied Benedict had no comment, Christ put out a press release shortly before his ascension.
“My children, it is not my time yet,” read the statement in part. “But someone had to give that A-hole a good face punching, and the buck stops here.” ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
March 18, 2009 by William K. Wolfrum
Jesus Christ – a leading figure in modern Christianity – returned to Earth today after a nearly 2,000-year hiatus. The Second Coming was cut short, however, as Christ, 37, went directly to the Vatican and punched Pope Benedict XVI square in the mouth. Jesus then ascended back to heaven.
While a bloodied Benedict had no comment, Christ put out a press release shortly before his ascension.
“My children, it is not my time yet,” read the statement in part. “But someone had to give that A-hole a good face punching, and the buck stops here.” ...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Trilobite Fez - XL (23.5")
$50.00
The Trilobite Fez
High Profile Fez - 3 color on Blue Slate
500,000,000 years in the making and long over due, we are now proud to bring you the Silver Trilobite Fez! This has been one of those ideas that has been kicking around for some time and after getting numerous requests, we have finally brought them back from extinction.
Ta much, dear Anneliese
$50.00
The Trilobite Fez
High Profile Fez - 3 color on Blue Slate
500,000,000 years in the making and long over due, we are now proud to bring you the Silver Trilobite Fez! This has been one of those ideas that has been kicking around for some time and after getting numerous requests, we have finally brought them back from extinction.
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Ate it circa 1982. The walls breathed and the floors rippled like water, but it was pretty mellow - like Goofy himself.
A friend had some Donald Duck at the same time, and it was much like Mr Duck: crazed.
The King!
¡Ay caramba!
This is the back of the Getafix stuff. 200 mics!
My current desktop wallpaper, albeit thus ensmallened.
Austrian takes pickaxe to Street View spymobile
Septuagenarian has hard line on privacy
By Lester Haines
9th April 2010
An Austrian old timer could be in a spot of bother with police after he chased a Street View spymobile with a pickaxe, the Austrian Times reports.
Google's Orwellian Opels have apparently come out of winter hibernation to continue their invasion of Austria. This didn't go down too well with 70-year-old Hermann Zach, who strongly objected to one prowling the streets of Steyregg earlier this week.
Zach explained: “I was working in the garden when I noticed this weird car on the road. I told the driver to make a move but he just didn’t listen. So I grabbed my pickaxe and ran after him." ...
Septuagenarian has hard line on privacy
By Lester Haines
9th April 2010
An Austrian old timer could be in a spot of bother with police after he chased a Street View spymobile with a pickaxe, the Austrian Times reports.
Google's Orwellian Opels have apparently come out of winter hibernation to continue their invasion of Austria. This didn't go down too well with 70-year-old Hermann Zach, who strongly objected to one prowling the streets of Steyregg earlier this week.
Zach explained: “I was working in the garden when I noticed this weird car on the road. I told the driver to make a move but he just didn’t listen. So I grabbed my pickaxe and ran after him." ...
... O'Shea: One of your resources for Wondermark material is the Los Angeles Central Library. Do the librarians recognize you when you come in to browse the collections? Do they recommend resources to you?
Malki !: I did ask them for help near the beginning of this whole project, but while they were friendly, they didn't really know how to help me. I had to dig around and do research to discover what I was really looking for -- which, I soon learned, is illustrated periodicals published between 1870 and 1900. I printed out a summary record from the catalog of all the periodicals published between 1870 and 1900 and I've been slowly working down the list for years now. Just the list of titles is seventeen pages long, and any of those titles can have dozens of 1000-page volumes!
Once I spent some time browsing the collections and got a pretty good handle on the titles that had the sort of illustrations I could work with, I started acquiring my own copies. I now have thirty or forty big books in my own collection that I can go to for almost anything. But there's nothing like spending a whole day just devouring a stack of old books at the library. It's like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet -- except that the heartburn afterwards is strictly metaphorical.
O'Shea: How did you first become interested in using 19th-Century woodcuts and engravings as fodder for comedy?
Malki !: Initially it was strictly an experiment: "Can I do this? Will it work?" And from there it was just a matter of "how much can I do with this and still make it work?" There are some comics I've made basically from isolated shapes and textures that I've reassembled like a puzzle. I liken it to sculpting with clay or playing with Legos. I don't know that it's necessarily the era itself or the culture that I love, as much as the style of illustration and what it lends itself to. And its prevalence! There's a lot more of this type of work extant than, say, medieval manuscripts.
Also it makes my work look CLASSY. ...
Malki !: I did ask them for help near the beginning of this whole project, but while they were friendly, they didn't really know how to help me. I had to dig around and do research to discover what I was really looking for -- which, I soon learned, is illustrated periodicals published between 1870 and 1900. I printed out a summary record from the catalog of all the periodicals published between 1870 and 1900 and I've been slowly working down the list for years now. Just the list of titles is seventeen pages long, and any of those titles can have dozens of 1000-page volumes!
Once I spent some time browsing the collections and got a pretty good handle on the titles that had the sort of illustrations I could work with, I started acquiring my own copies. I now have thirty or forty big books in my own collection that I can go to for almost anything. But there's nothing like spending a whole day just devouring a stack of old books at the library. It's like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet -- except that the heartburn afterwards is strictly metaphorical.
O'Shea: How did you first become interested in using 19th-Century woodcuts and engravings as fodder for comedy?
Malki !: Initially it was strictly an experiment: "Can I do this? Will it work?" And from there it was just a matter of "how much can I do with this and still make it work?" There are some comics I've made basically from isolated shapes and textures that I've reassembled like a puzzle. I liken it to sculpting with clay or playing with Legos. I don't know that it's necessarily the era itself or the culture that I love, as much as the style of illustration and what it lends itself to. And its prevalence! There's a lot more of this type of work extant than, say, medieval manuscripts.
Also it makes my work look CLASSY. ...
This week's is an exceptionally -evoking series.
-evoking series.
... Ominous! The coffin could contain a Roman military or religious official, but Terrenato isn't certain. This lead behemoth will soon reside at the American Academy in Rome, where researchers will attempt to divine its contents using thermography and endoscopic cameras. If neither of these methods work, the coffin may be subjected to an MRI of cyclopean proportions.
So what exactly is in this mysterious half-ton pine - erm - lead box? Here are some totally implausible possibilities:
- Cthulhu Jr.
- Cthulhu Jr.'s lunch.
- Some poor sap who turned the frozen donkey wheel with a little too much gusto.
- The groaning dregs of the first Roman zombie outbreak.
- All the wickedness of the world (with a dollop of hope).
- Apparitions who get their rocks off melting Nazis' faces.
- A bored demon who has nothing better to do other than go to Washington D.C. and make little girls drop the F-bomb.
- Candy. Just a mind-blowing, shit-ton of candy.
So what exactly is in this mysterious half-ton pine - erm - lead box? Here are some totally implausible possibilities:
- Cthulhu Jr.
- Cthulhu Jr.'s lunch.
- Some poor sap who turned the frozen donkey wheel with a little too much gusto.
- The groaning dregs of the first Roman zombie outbreak.
- All the wickedness of the world (with a dollop of hope).
- Apparitions who get their rocks off melting Nazis' faces.
- A bored demon who has nothing better to do other than go to Washington D.C. and make little girls drop the F-bomb.
- Candy. Just a mind-blowing, shit-ton of candy.
It's the World Cup of crisps!
Just like the real World Cup, but with more crisps and less football. OK, no football. OK, it's just crisps
Charlie Brooker
Monday 5 April 2010
Last year's "Do us a Flavour" campaign, in which the company launched six temporary new varieties, was eventually won by the hideous "Builder's Breakfast", which tasted like a fried egg in an envelope. This year, they're celebrating the World Cup by launching 15 – yes, 15 – new flavours, each ostensibly representing a different nation. I was alerted to this exciting development by an email from Walker's PR agency – I'm presumably on their radar after reviewing the "Do Us a Flavour" varieties last year. On that occasion, I went out and bought the crisps myself. This time I'd get them for free. Following a brief phone call, a courier delivered a mock suitcase full of crisps to my door. So you can view everything that follows as essentially free publicity for Walkers, albeit the kind of publicity that explicitly states that their new crisps taste revolting. Well, most of them. A couple of them are quite interesting, as you'll see in a moment: ...
... Italian spaghetti bolognese/ Brazilian salsa
Tomato time. These both taste like scratch'n'sniff pizza aroma: a lame committee meeting of watered-down herbs. The "Brazilian salsa" has a slightly more sugary feel, but otherwise I couldn't tell the difference. My face was openly sobbing by this point, mind.
Spanish chicken paella
It would've been fun to annoyed the Spanish by releasing "maltreated donkey" or "slaughtered bull" flavours instead, but no: chicken paella it is. Amazingly, these actually taste like rice. And slightly like chicken. But they don't taste like chicken paella: more like chicken fried rice. Maybe Walkers were expecting China to qualify.
Irish stew
No.
French garlic baguette
Garlic Bread diluted by a factor of approximately 10,000. So weak and ineffectual, it's almost homeopathic. They missed a trick: a novelty "snail" or "frog's legs" flavour would at least have grim curiosity value, much like . . .
Australian BBQ kangaroo
See? You want to know what these taste like, don't you? A: watery barbecue sauce with a dim hint of meat. There's no actual kangaroo in them, so the "kangaroo" is delivered entirely by your subconscious. They could call it "boiled pilot's leg" and the effect would be similar. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Just like the real World Cup, but with more crisps and less football. OK, no football. OK, it's just crisps
Charlie Brooker
Monday 5 April 2010
Last year's "Do us a Flavour" campaign, in which the company launched six temporary new varieties, was eventually won by the hideous "Builder's Breakfast", which tasted like a fried egg in an envelope. This year, they're celebrating the World Cup by launching 15 – yes, 15 – new flavours, each ostensibly representing a different nation. I was alerted to this exciting development by an email from Walker's PR agency – I'm presumably on their radar after reviewing the "Do Us a Flavour" varieties last year. On that occasion, I went out and bought the crisps myself. This time I'd get them for free. Following a brief phone call, a courier delivered a mock suitcase full of crisps to my door. So you can view everything that follows as essentially free publicity for Walkers, albeit the kind of publicity that explicitly states that their new crisps taste revolting. Well, most of them. A couple of them are quite interesting, as you'll see in a moment: ...
... Italian spaghetti bolognese/ Brazilian salsa
Tomato time. These both taste like scratch'n'sniff pizza aroma: a lame committee meeting of watered-down herbs. The "Brazilian salsa" has a slightly more sugary feel, but otherwise I couldn't tell the difference. My face was openly sobbing by this point, mind.
Spanish chicken paella
It would've been fun to annoyed the Spanish by releasing "maltreated donkey" or "slaughtered bull" flavours instead, but no: chicken paella it is. Amazingly, these actually taste like rice. And slightly like chicken. But they don't taste like chicken paella: more like chicken fried rice. Maybe Walkers were expecting China to qualify.
Irish stew
No.
French garlic baguette
Garlic Bread diluted by a factor of approximately 10,000. So weak and ineffectual, it's almost homeopathic. They missed a trick: a novelty "snail" or "frog's legs" flavour would at least have grim curiosity value, much like . . .
Australian BBQ kangaroo
See? You want to know what these taste like, don't you? A: watery barbecue sauce with a dim hint of meat. There's no actual kangaroo in them, so the "kangaroo" is delivered entirely by your subconscious. They could call it "boiled pilot's leg" and the effect would be similar. ...
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Those aren't boxer shorts, they're tighty....um......well, they're not boxers.
Rum bar rumblings
Tuesday | March 23, 2010
So it was early afternoon at a roomy bar in Lawrence Tavern, St Andrew recently when the ground started shaking.
First, there was a loud rumble, then the entire building started trembling like a jackhammer. It lasted for less than five seconds, but that was long enough for Pinnie, the tall fellow sitting in the back, near a slot machine, to completely freak out.
"Lawd Jeezas! Earthquake! Move outa mi way!" he yelled, and ran into the bathroom. Now, to be fair to Pinnie, it's likely that all of us inside that bar were thinking the same thing. And, with all the talk of earthquakes in the news recently, Pinnie's unflattering exclamation might very well have been warranted. There were perhaps 10 persons inside, and most looked stunned when the ground shook. I was confused. I mean, it felt like an earthquake, but nobody outside seemed at all alarmed. What happened? I hurried over to the front door.
A crowd had converged nearby and I struggled to see what was happening.
"Ah blind him blind?" someone yelled. "Ah wah him did ah do?" a woman asked. There was a large delivery truck nearby, and that seemed to have been the centre of attention. As it turned out, the driver of the truck had backed the large vehicle right up to a concrete wall at the far end of the bar. It hit the wall causing the shake we felt earlier. Somehow, the wall didn't collapse, but the event still attracted the attention of everyone nearby.
"Den driver, ah sleep yuh did ah sleep?" I heard someone ask. The driver of the truck, an unfortunate figure in a green and red merino hopped out of the truck to survey the damage. He stared at the wall for a while and scratched his head. Then, he turned around to face the crowd. "Unnu gweh! Afta di wall nuh mash up! Mind unnu business and lef mi," he said, waving his hand dismissively.
"Eh eh! Ah wah tek dis yah Claffy?" someone shouted. I stepped back inside the bar. ...
Claffy (CLAHF-ee) - adj.; Stupid
Gyal - n.; Gal
Fava (FAY-vah) - n., v. trans.; 1. Favo/ur 2. Resemble
Rat Bat - n.; Bat: flying mammals of the order Chiroptera. [Ed. Note: Jamaicans are somehow unable to use merely 'bat,' but must instead always say 'rat bat.' Dogs are occasionally described as having "rat bat ears."]
...some of our beloved readers suggested what we're dealing with here are in fact supersized flying side cutters, no doubt created from some advanced alien alloy capable of overcoming the most stubborn example of mankind's puny cable technology. ...
Giant flying pliers menace West Bromwich
Street View captures transdimensional DIY moment
By Lester Haines
12th March 2010
...we invite you to ponder the disturbing case of the West Bromwich giant flying pliers, submitted by a shaken Craig Keightley:
The gravitational distortion effect around the pliers suggest they've just passed through a transdimensional portal from an alternative universe where perhaps the inhabitants just take their DIY a lot more seriously or, more chillingly, entire solar systems have been subdued by pitiless, Borg-like plier creatures.
Just in case it's the latter, I for one would like to welcome, and so forth... ®
Bootnote:
StreetViewFun is calling this piece of strangeness "God's Pliers". Divine provenance? You decide.
Street View captures transdimensional DIY moment
By Lester Haines
12th March 2010
...we invite you to ponder the disturbing case of the West Bromwich giant flying pliers, submitted by a shaken Craig Keightley:
The gravitational distortion effect around the pliers suggest they've just passed through a transdimensional portal from an alternative universe where perhaps the inhabitants just take their DIY a lot more seriously or, more chillingly, entire solar systems have been subdued by pitiless, Borg-like plier creatures.
Just in case it's the latter, I for one would like to welcome, and so forth... ®
Bootnote:
StreetViewFun is calling this piece of strangeness "God's Pliers". Divine provenance? You decide.
The Brits have a lot of gall, picking on us Yankistanis and our abuse of th' English tongue.
The old woman of Mount Edwards
Published: Tuesday | March 9, 2010
... I asked if either of them knew of Miss Lecky, and the elder woman nodded. I asked if the stories of her ability to give the best advice were true and if they knew where I could find her.
"Den ah quite ah town yuh stay and here dat? Heh heh! What a prekeh!" said the woman with the pointy nose.
"Miss Lecky name gone abroad!" she added, gesturing wildly.
"Miss Lecky nuh too love company though, yuh know. But yuh can check har and see what happen. Just follow dis road likkle 'til yuh see a turning, den turn and yuh will see a old house. Is she alone live around there so yuh can't lost."
I thanked both women and walked off, thankful to be out from under the stare of the skinny one.
About five minutes later, I came across the corner I was told of and soon spotted a rickety old house. Its zinc roof was rusty and the windows had large gaps that were patched with pieces of wood. There was a blue plastic drum full of water outside but no sign of anyone. Surprisingly, there was a car parked not far away, but there was nobody inside it.
I walked up to the door of the house, then stood a second in silence, wondering what to do next. I gave it a knock. Silence. I knocked again. Silence.
"Miss Lecky?" I hollered. No sound. After a couple minutes more of knocking and looking around I started to curse my luck. Ticked off for having come this far without success, I walked off. But then I heard it. Though faint, I clearly heard a woman's voice inside.
"Is who dat now?" Excited, I shouted my name and said I just wanted to speak with Miss Lecky because I had heard great things about her back in Kingston.
"Kingston? But I nuh go dem places! It too chuck-up chuck-up," the woman said. I asked if she was Miss Lecky. "I am Lecky," the woman replied. I asked if she was often approached by members of the community for advice. "Well, yes, every minute. But is just because mi old dem seh mi wise," she replied. ...
Published: Tuesday | March 9, 2010
... I asked if either of them knew of Miss Lecky, and the elder woman nodded. I asked if the stories of her ability to give the best advice were true and if they knew where I could find her.
"Den ah quite ah town yuh stay and here dat? Heh heh! What a prekeh!" said the woman with the pointy nose.
"Miss Lecky name gone abroad!" she added, gesturing wildly.
"Miss Lecky nuh too love company though, yuh know. But yuh can check har and see what happen. Just follow dis road likkle 'til yuh see a turning, den turn and yuh will see a old house. Is she alone live around there so yuh can't lost."
I thanked both women and walked off, thankful to be out from under the stare of the skinny one.
About five minutes later, I came across the corner I was told of and soon spotted a rickety old house. Its zinc roof was rusty and the windows had large gaps that were patched with pieces of wood. There was a blue plastic drum full of water outside but no sign of anyone. Surprisingly, there was a car parked not far away, but there was nobody inside it.
I walked up to the door of the house, then stood a second in silence, wondering what to do next. I gave it a knock. Silence. I knocked again. Silence.
"Miss Lecky?" I hollered. No sound. After a couple minutes more of knocking and looking around I started to curse my luck. Ticked off for having come this far without success, I walked off. But then I heard it. Though faint, I clearly heard a woman's voice inside.
"Is who dat now?" Excited, I shouted my name and said I just wanted to speak with Miss Lecky because I had heard great things about her back in Kingston.
"Kingston? But I nuh go dem places! It too chuck-up chuck-up," the woman said. I asked if she was Miss Lecky. "I am Lecky," the woman replied. I asked if she was often approached by members of the community for advice. "Well, yes, every minute. But is just because mi old dem seh mi wise," she replied. ...
Flushed with pride, eh?
Awww
Where's Max?!
*cough* *cough*
snicker snicker
Ah, chinastan!
You a friend of HG Wells' or summat?
*hic*
... When looking through some really neat groups on Flickr.com, I came across a unique profile of the name Adopt-a-bot. Brian Marshall, a middle school teacher by day, is kept busy at night as the wild and crazy orphans crawl up from the deep dark recesses of his basement. Brian has a very creative mind, using found objects or items he finds from garage sales, eBay, scrap yards etc. Some of his favorite items to use are old oil cans, aluminum measuring spoons, electrical meters, retro blenders, anodized cups, and pencil sharpeners.
If you are ever in Wilmington, Delaware, you must stop by to see the menagerie of robotic creatures at the Adopt-a-bot orphanage. For as long as he can remember, Brian has always had a passion for building things. Legos and Lincoln Logs occupied his time as a youngster, but as he grew older and his construction techniques progressed, he sought out new and unusual materials that would allow his imagination to run wild. Then, one lazy afternoon while watching movies Brian was inspired by an unusual lamp and his artistic career was born. Lamps led to clocks, small tables, chandeliers and his first attempt at robots with his Night Watchmen series. The Night Watchmen were robotic heads that lit up to scare away the evil monsters that hide under beds. Then came the day when the first robot emerged from his basement, and he knew he had found his true passion. His basement became a place where all the unwanted, used up parts from commercial enterprises and residential homes could now come to find hope. This was when Brian created the world’s first robot orphanage. Just because these parts were no longer desired for their original purpose, they refused to believe they should die an agonizing death in a big smelting pot or a landfill. So with a little help, these parts were coming together with new and unusual friends to fulfill their dreams of once again bringing joys to others. And bringing joy they are to families as far away as Hong Kong. ...
Booton & Watts
No. 12
CB Checker
Robofish
Robo Band
Marshall
Ta much, dear Edosan
If you are ever in Wilmington, Delaware, you must stop by to see the menagerie of robotic creatures at the Adopt-a-bot orphanage. For as long as he can remember, Brian has always had a passion for building things. Legos and Lincoln Logs occupied his time as a youngster, but as he grew older and his construction techniques progressed, he sought out new and unusual materials that would allow his imagination to run wild. Then, one lazy afternoon while watching movies Brian was inspired by an unusual lamp and his artistic career was born. Lamps led to clocks, small tables, chandeliers and his first attempt at robots with his Night Watchmen series. The Night Watchmen were robotic heads that lit up to scare away the evil monsters that hide under beds. Then came the day when the first robot emerged from his basement, and he knew he had found his true passion. His basement became a place where all the unwanted, used up parts from commercial enterprises and residential homes could now come to find hope. This was when Brian created the world’s first robot orphanage. Just because these parts were no longer desired for their original purpose, they refused to believe they should die an agonizing death in a big smelting pot or a landfill. So with a little help, these parts were coming together with new and unusual friends to fulfill their dreams of once again bringing joys to others. And bringing joy they are to families as far away as Hong Kong. ...
Booton & Watts
No. 12
CB Checker
Robofish
Robo Band
Marshall
Ta much, dear Edosan
Uncle Cecil and the falling cars of Cassava River
Published: Tuesday | February 23, 2010
Claplunk! The loud noise outside jolted Uncle Cecil from his sleep late one rainy Sunday night.
"Mi swear ah one ah di hog dem get weh inna di yard," said Uncle Cecil, relating the story of that night.
"But den mi seh, no, di hog couldn't so loud, so mi jump outa di bed and run outside wid mi cutlass."
As he ran outside, Uncle Cecil contemplated the different possibilities. Was he about to face a brazen band of robbers, a mule gone astray or perhaps a spurned lover hurling rocks at his roof? All these things ran through his mind but, as he opened the front door of his home and looked out, what greeted him made him angrier than he ever imagined.
"Mi seh, no sah, not again! Dis could never be happening again."
A small car had careened off the road on the hill above Uncle Cecil's house and had landed just about 10 feet from his home. The wheels of the car were still spinning even though the car was upside down. Luckily, the driver was alright, but he had to endure quite a tongue-thrashing from Uncle Cecil.
"Dat ah di third time inna two year dat one car drop pan mi house, and mi very tired ah it," said the man as we stood on the side of the road, looking down at his house in Cassava River, rural St Catherine, last week.
"Every time ah di same ting, and mi tired fi tell di people dem seh dem need fi tek time drive, or somebody need fi build a wall right here," he said. ...
Duck Billed Platypus USB Drive
by Ally - on February 19th, 2010
[The] duck billed platypus is such an under loved creature. Thankfully one seller is finally having mercy on the animal. Now you can show your platypus loving side with this handy USB drive. Sure, some people might think it’s silly to carry around a platypus USB drive, but they clearly just don’t know what they’re missing. This happy creature is perfectly content holding onto even the most dull documents that you need.
Of course it’s only half of a platypus instead of the whole thing. Instead of having back legs he just has a USB port. Which is tragic for him, but handy for you. The drive holds 4GB of the necessary items you need to store within it....
Ta much, dear Anneliese
by Ally - on February 19th, 2010
[The] duck billed platypus is such an under loved creature. Thankfully one seller is finally having mercy on the animal. Now you can show your platypus loving side with this handy USB drive. Sure, some people might think it’s silly to carry around a platypus USB drive, but they clearly just don’t know what they’re missing. This happy creature is perfectly content holding onto even the most dull documents that you need.
Of course it’s only half of a platypus instead of the whole thing. Instead of having back legs he just has a USB port. Which is tragic for him, but handy for you. The drive holds 4GB of the necessary items you need to store within it....
Ta much, dear Anneliese
I’m tired of this shit.
It’s about time that everyone learned their damn homophones. If you slept your way through the fourth grade or just skipped all of the grammar lectures because you were too busy sucking off that dude in the locker room, then maybe this table will help clear up some of the fucking confusion.
Commonly fucked up homophones.
These …are not …the fucking same.
Affect - Your horrendous grammar affects the quality of your input as an interlocutor.
Effect - Your grammar’s effects are so unspeakable that you should be prosecuted at The Hague.
*Hint: Effect is most commonly a noun; affect is most commonly a verb.
Bare - By using improper grammar, you are laying bare your ignorance.
Bear - I cannot bear this any longer: please, learn your damn homophones. ...
... Discreet - If you can’t discern the difference between homophones, then be discreet.
Discrete - There is a discrete difference between someone who knows homophones and someone who does not. ...
... Its - Bad grammar shall no longer rear its ugly head.
It’s - It’s a terrible thing to use improper grammar.
*Hint: Its can only be possessive; It’s is a contraction of ‘it’ & ‘is’.
Loose - The grammar gods shall let loose some horrible plague upon you should you choose to continue fucking up homophones.
Lose - Using bad grammar is a social stigma, which makes you lose credibility. ...
... Your - Your grammar sucks.
You’re - You’re an idiot if you fuck up homophones.
*Hint: Your can only be possessive; you’re is a contraction of ‘you’ & ‘are’....
... Please, learn your damn homophones.
You think this is obscene? Do you even read any of the stupid shit you write? That’s obscene.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
It’s about time that everyone learned their damn homophones. If you slept your way through the fourth grade or just skipped all of the grammar lectures because you were too busy sucking off that dude in the locker room, then maybe this table will help clear up some of the fucking confusion.
Commonly fucked up homophones.
These …are not …the fucking same.
Affect - Your horrendous grammar affects the quality of your input as an interlocutor.
Effect - Your grammar’s effects are so unspeakable that you should be prosecuted at The Hague.
*Hint: Effect is most commonly a noun; affect is most commonly a verb.
Bare - By using improper grammar, you are laying bare your ignorance.
Bear - I cannot bear this any longer: please, learn your damn homophones. ...
... Discreet - If you can’t discern the difference between homophones, then be discreet.
Discrete - There is a discrete difference between someone who knows homophones and someone who does not. ...
... Its - Bad grammar shall no longer rear its ugly head.
It’s - It’s a terrible thing to use improper grammar.
*Hint: Its can only be possessive; It’s is a contraction of ‘it’ & ‘is’.
Loose - The grammar gods shall let loose some horrible plague upon you should you choose to continue fucking up homophones.
Lose - Using bad grammar is a social stigma, which makes you lose credibility. ...
... Your - Your grammar sucks.
You’re - You’re an idiot if you fuck up homophones.
*Hint: Your can only be possessive; you’re is a contraction of ‘you’ & ‘are’....
... Please, learn your damn homophones.
You think this is obscene? Do you even read any of the stupid shit you write? That’s obscene.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Ta much, dear MSiegel, and thank you. I really appreciate it. You're very kind. My gratitude knows no bounds.
How Handy!
Gosh, thanks!
Day of the Dead papercut made in San Salvador Huixcolotla, Mexico (1980s) on Flickr - Photo Sharing!
Day of the Dead papercut made in San Salvador Huixcolotla, Mexico (1980s)
I'm, uh, sorry?
Bloody quantum physics majors!
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Sitting on concrete stairs, starving - even with an epically wretched hangover - can't diminish the glory of Brunch With Bach.
... A snow day is a good time to catch up on everyone's blogs. I see this list was published at both Le Café Witteveen and the Rabid Atheist, but it's a meme worth repeating. I give you,
12 Reasons Why Gay Marriage Should Be Illegal
1. Homosexuality is not natural, much like eyeglasses, polyester, and birth control.
2. Heterosexual marriages are valid because they produce children. Infertile couples and old people can’t legally get married because the world needs more children.
3. Obviously, gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
4. Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage is allowed, since Britney Spears’ 55-hour just-for-fun marriage was meaningful.
5. Heterosexual marriage has been around a long time and hasn’t changed at all; women are property, blacks can’t marry whites, and divorce is illegal.
6. Gay marriage should be decided by people, not the courts, because the majority-elected legislatures, not courts, have historically protected the rights of the minorities.
7. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That’s why we have only one religion in America.
8. Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
9. Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
10. Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That’s why single parents are forbidden to raise children.
11. Gay marriage will change the foundation of society. Heterosexual marriage has been around for a long time, and we could never adapt to new social norms because we haven’t adapted to things like cars or longer life-spans.
12. Civil unions, providing most of the same benefits as marriage with a different name are better, because a “separate but equal” institution is always constitutional. Separate schools for African-Americans worked just as well as separate marriages for gays and lesbians will.
Ta much, dear Anneliese
12 Reasons Why Gay Marriage Should Be Illegal
1. Homosexuality is not natural, much like eyeglasses, polyester, and birth control.
2. Heterosexual marriages are valid because they produce children. Infertile couples and old people can’t legally get married because the world needs more children.
3. Obviously, gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
4. Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage is allowed, since Britney Spears’ 55-hour just-for-fun marriage was meaningful.
5. Heterosexual marriage has been around a long time and hasn’t changed at all; women are property, blacks can’t marry whites, and divorce is illegal.
6. Gay marriage should be decided by people, not the courts, because the majority-elected legislatures, not courts, have historically protected the rights of the minorities.
7. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That’s why we have only one religion in America.
8. Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
9. Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
10. Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That’s why single parents are forbidden to raise children.
11. Gay marriage will change the foundation of society. Heterosexual marriage has been around for a long time, and we could never adapt to new social norms because we haven’t adapted to things like cars or longer life-spans.
12. Civil unions, providing most of the same benefits as marriage with a different name are better, because a “separate but equal” institution is always constitutional. Separate schools for African-Americans worked just as well as separate marriages for gays and lesbians will.
Ta much, dear Anneliese
Published: Tuesday | February 9, 2010
Screech! I stepped on the brakes with great force, and lunged forward as the car came to a stop. It was late Saturday night, while travelling along Highway 2000, when I spotted her. She was a beauty standing next to a black station wagon parked by the side of the road. She had thick luxurious hair that fell just below her shoulders, was dressed in a miniskirt and slippers and had the longest legs I'd ever seen.
She was gazing down at something on her car, and I could tell from where I was that the car had a flat tyre. Now a few things floated through my mind at that point. One was that it would be nice of me to stop and lend a helping hand. I mean, it was late and the road was dark and there were only a few cars using the road at that hour. The other was that this could all have been a clever ruse, a ploy, if you will, to lure unsuspecting strangers such as myself to the assistance of this fine young woman, only to be pounced upon by a gang of goons. I spent a few seconds pondering the different possibilities, then took another glance at the belle. She gently brushed her hair from her face and in that moment I was hooked. I knew quite well that it could have been my final act of civility, but what a way to go! I pulled over to the side of the road and hopped out.
Summoning my best 'knight-in-shining-armour' voice, I asked the woman if she needed some help.
"Ahm ... well the tyre is flat and I don't know how to change it and ..." she started. I put a hand up to cut her off and told her she needed to say no more, as I was happy to lend a hand. ...
Flaring tempers sear St Andrew streets
Published: Tuesday | February 2, 2010
So I was travelling along Hagley Park Road in St Andrew the other day and had an encounter with a squeegee-wielding straggler who had me contemplating committing grievous bodily harm and running off to Mexico to lay low for a while. I mean, I'm as law-abiding as the next guy, but no jury in the world would convict me for landing a wallop right between the eyes of this hooligan.
It was a Tuesday, like any other, when I pulled up to a stoplight, as I often do. Immediately, the race was on. They appeared from every corner, shoe-less men brandishing instruments of window-washing like mini torture devices aimed at hapless motorists. The drivers had little choice but to wave frantically even as soapy water was being sprayed on otherwise clean windshields. But their waving did little to stop the unfolding debacle. The men just continued washing windshields, further angering the drivers with every turn of the wrist.
"Oy bwoy! Mi tell yuh yesterday seh mi ah ago lick yuh down if yuh touch mi cyar again!" yelled a large man in a small black car. He had stuck his head outside the vehicle and flashed his hand as he spoke.
"Just cool, Uncle, is just a food we ah look fi buy," replied the man washing the windshield of the car.
"Uncle? Mi know yuh? Nobody inna my family couldn't so ugly!" the driver quipped. ...
Published: Tuesday | February 2, 2010
So I was travelling along Hagley Park Road in St Andrew the other day and had an encounter with a squeegee-wielding straggler who had me contemplating committing grievous bodily harm and running off to Mexico to lay low for a while. I mean, I'm as law-abiding as the next guy, but no jury in the world would convict me for landing a wallop right between the eyes of this hooligan.
It was a Tuesday, like any other, when I pulled up to a stoplight, as I often do. Immediately, the race was on. They appeared from every corner, shoe-less men brandishing instruments of window-washing like mini torture devices aimed at hapless motorists. The drivers had little choice but to wave frantically even as soapy water was being sprayed on otherwise clean windshields. But their waving did little to stop the unfolding debacle. The men just continued washing windshields, further angering the drivers with every turn of the wrist.
"Oy bwoy! Mi tell yuh yesterday seh mi ah ago lick yuh down if yuh touch mi cyar again!" yelled a large man in a small black car. He had stuck his head outside the vehicle and flashed his hand as he spoke.
"Just cool, Uncle, is just a food we ah look fi buy," replied the man washing the windshield of the car.
"Uncle? Mi know yuh? Nobody inna my family couldn't so ugly!" the driver quipped. ...
Fool-proof
Location: packet of "Man Sex Fancy Soap" in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania
Spotted by: Fred Saugman
Fanks awfully, chuck.
Top Gear's Stig prowls Loch Ness
Street View sighting of elusive motoring beastie
By Lester Haines
26th January 2010
We're obliged to all those readers who rushed to alert us that The Stig of Top Gear fame has been spotted on the shores of Loch Ness:
Of course, no one knows just who The Stig is, but what's clear is that, in common with Judge Dredd, he never takes his helmet off - a fact proved by another sighting early last year at the BBC's offices in west London:
Street View sighting of elusive motoring beastie
By Lester Haines
26th January 2010
We're obliged to all those readers who rushed to alert us that The Stig of Top Gear fame has been spotted on the shores of Loch Ness:
Of course, no one knows just who The Stig is, but what's clear is that, in common with Judge Dredd, he never takes his helmet off - a fact proved by another sighting early last year at the BBC's offices in west London:
moar funny pictures
Ta much, dear Anneliese, who's responsible for the following mini-lolpocalypse....
You can blame me for th' one above, Gentle Categorian.
Tacet
Posted in Literature, Society by Greg Ross on January 16th, 2010
When George Bernard Shaw was a music critic, he dined one evening at a restaurant with a mediocre orchestra.
Recognizing Shaw, the leader sent him a note asking what he would like them to play next.
Shaw replied, “Dominoes.”
Ta much, dear Glenn321
Posted in Literature, Society by Greg Ross on January 16th, 2010
When George Bernard Shaw was a music critic, he dined one evening at a restaurant with a mediocre orchestra.
Recognizing Shaw, the leader sent him a note asking what he would like them to play next.
Shaw replied, “Dominoes.”
Ta much, dear Glenn321
How Handy!
/me bites tongue
... Even a preposterous advertising campaign can't dent the Tories. All over London, billboards depict Cameron looking you in the eye with an expression of genteel concern, accompanied by the slogan "We can't go on like this". To the observer, the overall effect is that of a man trying to wriggle out of an unfulfilling sexual relationship without hurting your feelings. Or maybe a boss who's called you into his office for a passive-aggressive talking-to. Would you vote for that? Not normally, no. But when the opposition is a flock of startled, shrieking hens, your range of options shrinks drastically.
But perhaps there's still a glimmer of hope for Labour. I recently watched several episodes of a high-quality US comedy-drama serial called Breaking Bad. The storyline revolves around an underachieving, debt-ridden 50-year-old chemistry teacher who discovers he's got terminal cancer. But wait, it gets funnier. Realising he has absolutely nothing to lose, he decides to become a crystal meth dealer in an insane last-ditch attempt to provide financial support for his family when he's gone. Cue plenty of pitch-black hi-jinks.
It's a good show. It's also a road map for Labour. The party's condition is similarly terminal, so it might as well go for broke by announcing a series of demented and ill-advised election pledges in an openly desperate bid to retain power. Who knows? It might just work. And if it's having a hard time choosing some make-or-break policies, I'll be only too happy to provide a list. Starting now....
But perhaps there's still a glimmer of hope for Labour. I recently watched several episodes of a high-quality US comedy-drama serial called Breaking Bad. The storyline revolves around an underachieving, debt-ridden 50-year-old chemistry teacher who discovers he's got terminal cancer. But wait, it gets funnier. Realising he has absolutely nothing to lose, he decides to become a crystal meth dealer in an insane last-ditch attempt to provide financial support for his family when he's gone. Cue plenty of pitch-black hi-jinks.
It's a good show. It's also a road map for Labour. The party's condition is similarly terminal, so it might as well go for broke by announcing a series of demented and ill-advised election pledges in an openly desperate bid to retain power. Who knows? It might just work. And if it's having a hard time choosing some make-or-break policies, I'll be only too happy to provide a list. Starting now....
The secret of Xmas crackers -- pull downwards
Thu Dec 24, 2009 4:04pm GMT
LONDON (Reuters) - Debenhams department store has worked out a formula it says will make sure festive feasters are never again left holding the short end of a pulled cracker.
"Success is mainly down to the angle, grip, cracker size and 'lines of failure' or where the cracker is likely to tear," said Debenhams.
When pulled, a cracker will always rip at a weak point connecting the reinforced barrel section to the tails, the store added.
By pulling backwards and down at the same time, it is possible to concentrate the force across the top face of the opponent's line of likely failure.
The cracker should be gripped about an inch from the end of the tail closest to the barrel. The tail should be kept in line with the barrel as it is pulled backwards and downwards, with an even force.
For the serious puller, the store has worked out a mathematical formula: O = 11xC/L + 5xQ, where O is the optimum downward angle for pulling the cracker.
C stands for the circumference of the barrel, L is the barrel's length and Q is the quality of the cracker -- pricier versions are often made from stronger material which will increase the optimum angle of pull.
Q has a value of one, two or three depending on whether the cracker is cheap, standard or expensive.
Debenhams said the formula should produce a two-digit figure between 20 and 55 degrees, which is the optimum pulling angle below the horizontal.
"Don't worry, it's less complicated than it looks," it adds.
Thu Dec 24, 2009 4:04pm GMT
LONDON (Reuters) - Debenhams department store has worked out a formula it says will make sure festive feasters are never again left holding the short end of a pulled cracker.
"Success is mainly down to the angle, grip, cracker size and 'lines of failure' or where the cracker is likely to tear," said Debenhams.
When pulled, a cracker will always rip at a weak point connecting the reinforced barrel section to the tails, the store added.
By pulling backwards and down at the same time, it is possible to concentrate the force across the top face of the opponent's line of likely failure.
The cracker should be gripped about an inch from the end of the tail closest to the barrel. The tail should be kept in line with the barrel as it is pulled backwards and downwards, with an even force.
For the serious puller, the store has worked out a mathematical formula: O = 11xC/L + 5xQ, where O is the optimum downward angle for pulling the cracker.
C stands for the circumference of the barrel, L is the barrel's length and Q is the quality of the cracker -- pricier versions are often made from stronger material which will increase the optimum angle of pull.
Q has a value of one, two or three depending on whether the cracker is cheap, standard or expensive.
Debenhams said the formula should produce a two-digit figure between 20 and 55 degrees, which is the optimum pulling angle below the horizontal.
"Don't worry, it's less complicated than it looks," it adds.
⇑ 0_o OMFG o_0 ⇓
Eating almost anything on the menu in the first two images might make a cuppa 'emlock tay sound very nice.
This one's located near the Georgia/Alabama border; quel surprise, mes petits charmants!
Mr Toad is obviously a Scorpio: many of them have a desire to somehow consume things and those whom they love.
Dear Anneliese hipped me to another version of this video, and I found this one myself.
Ta much for this bit of bizarrerie, dear Edosan
... Remember the milk cartons served in the school cafeteria? This familiar icon is much more charming—and practical! Artfully made of clear glass, it blends with any table setting. Fun for gift-giving!
Ta much, dear MSiegel
Ta much, dear MSiegel
How Mr Malki! Makes A Calendar.
~ Part One of Five ~
[This fancy font free here]
A Mystery Revealed:
How Mr Malki! Makes A Calendar.
~ Part Two of Five ~
[This fancy font free here.]
A Mystery Revealed:
How Mr Malki! Makes A Calendar.
~ Part Three of Five ~
[This fancy font free here.]
A Mystery Revealed:
How Mr Malki! Makes A Calendar.
~ Part Four of Five ~
[This fancy font free here.]
How Mr Malki! Makes A Calendar.
~ Part Five and The Last ~
[This fancy font free here]
Ta much, dear Glenn321! Fair dos, sending me this surreal bit of Engrish after I'd sent him all that surreal soap.
Nancy and Sluggo's rocks are descended from the bricks in Krazy Kat, of course.
In the world of global warming very important to save all animals that live on Earth. Some companies even donate money to this target and more one way to pay attention of the peoples - to create USB drives in shape as animals. For example Panda USB drive, Elephant USB drive or USB Zoo series. Today we join new “friend“ – fun Lizard USB drive. Verily, lizard it’s not whale or other rare animal, but we must to save every bug in order to leave the beautiful World to the descendants.
WTF?!
IranTour's latest slogan:
You'll Be Affected by Our Affection
... "Had it in my head for long?" said Raffles, as we strolled through the streets towards dawn, for all the world as though we were returning from a dance. "No, Bunny, I never thought of it till I saw that upper part empty about a month ago, and bought a few things in the shop to get the lie of the land. That reminds me that I never paid for them; but, by Jove, I will tomorrow, and if that isn't poetic justice, what is? One visit showed me the possibilities of the place, but a second convinced me of its impossibilities without a pal. So I had practically given up the idea, when you came along on the very night and in the very plight for it! But here we are at the Albany, and I hope there's some fire left; for I don't know how you feel, Bunny, but for my part I'm as cold as Keats's owl."
He could think of Keats on his way from a felony! He could hanker for his fireside like another! Floodgates were loosed within me, and the plain English of our adventure rushed over me as cold as ice. Raffles was a burglar. I had helped him to commit one burglary, therefore I was a burglar, too. Yet I could stand and warm myself by his fire, and watch him empty his pockets, as though we had done nothing wonderful or wicked!
My blood froze. My heart sickened. My brain whirled. How I had liked this villain! How I had admired him! Now my liking and admiration must turn to loathing and disgust. I waited for the change. I longed to feel it in my heart. But — I longed and I waited in vain!
I saw that he was emptying his pockets; the table sparkled with their hoard. Rings by the dozen, diamonds by the score; bracelets, pendants, aigrettes, necklaces, pearls, rubies, amethysts, sapphires; and diamonds always, diamonds in everything, flashing bayonets of light, dazzling me — blinding me — making me disbelieve because I could no longer forget. Last of all came no gem, indeed, but my own revolver from an inner pocket. And that struck a chord. I suppose I said something — my hand flew out. I can see Raffles now, as he looked at me once more with a high arch over each clear eye. I can see him pick out the cartridges with his quiet, cynical smile, before he would give me my pistol back again.
"You mayn't believe it, Bunny," said he, "but I never carried a loaded one before. On the whole I think it gives one confidence. Yet it would be very awkward if anything went wrong; one might use it, and that's not the game at all, though I have often thought that the murderer who has just done the trick must have great sensations before things get too hot for him. Don't look so distressed, my dear chap. I've never had those sensations, and I don't suppose I ever shall."
"But this much you have done before?" said I hoarsely.
"Before? My dear Bunny, you offend me! Did it look like a first attempt? Of course I have done it before."
"Often?"
"Well — no! Not often enough to destroy the charm, at all events; never, as a matter of fact, unless I'm cursedly hard up. Did you hear about the Thimbleby diamonds? Well, that was the last time — and a poor lot of paste they were. Then there was the little business of the Dormer house-boat at Henley last year. That was mine also — such as it was. I've never brought off a really big coup yet; when I do I shall chuck it up."
Yes, I remembered both cases very well. To think that he was their author! It was incredible, outrageous, inconceivable. Then my eyes would fall upon the table, twinkling and glittering in a hundred places, and incredulity was at an end.
"How came you to begin?" I asked, as curiosity overcame mere wonder, and a fascination for his career gradually wove itself into my fascination for the man.
"Ah! that's a long story," said Raffles. "It was in the Colonies, when I was out there playing cricket. It's too long a story to tell you now, but I was in much the same fix that you were in tonight, and it was my only way out. I never meant it for anything more; but I'd tasted blood, and it was all over with me. Why should I work when I could steal? Why settle down to some humdrum uncongenial billet, when excitement, romance, danger and a decent living were all going begging together? Of course it's very wrong, but we can't all be moralists, and the distribution of wealth is very wrong to begin with. Besides, you're not at it all the time. I'm sick of quoting Gilbert's lines to myself, but they're profoundly true. I only wonder if you'll like the life as much as I do!"
"Like it?" I cried out. "Not I! It's no life for me. Once is enough!"
"You wouldn't give me a hand another time?"
"Don't ask me, Raffles. Don't ask me, for God's sake!"
"Yet you said you would do anything for me! You asked me to name my crime! But I knew at the time you didn't mean it; you didn't go back on me tonight, and that ought to satisfy me, goodness knows! I suppose I'm ungrateful, and unreasonable, and all that. I ought to let it end at this. But you're the very man for me, Bunny, the — very — man! Just think how we got through tonight. Not a scratch — not a hitch! There's nothing very terrible in it, you see; there never would be, while we worked together."
He was standing in front of me with a hand on either shoulder; he was smiling as he knew so well how to smile. I turned on my heel, planted my elbows on the chimney-piece, and my burning head between my hands. Next instant a still heartier hand had fallen on my back.
"All right, my boy! You are quite right and I'm worse than wrong. I'll never ask it again. Go, if you want to, and come again about mid-day for the cash. There was no bargain; but, of course, I'll get you out of your scrape — especially after the way you've stood by me tonight."
I was round again with my blood on fire.
"I'll do it again," I said, through my teeth.
He shook his head. "Not you," he said, smiling quite good-humoredly on my insane enthusiasm.
"I will," I cried with an oath. "I'll lend you a hand as often as you like! What does it matter now? I've been in it once. I'll be in it again. I've gone to the devil anyhow. I can't go back, and wouldn't if I could. Nothing matters another rap! When you want me, I'm your man!"
And that is how Raffles and I joined felonious forces on the Ides of March.
He could think of Keats on his way from a felony! He could hanker for his fireside like another! Floodgates were loosed within me, and the plain English of our adventure rushed over me as cold as ice. Raffles was a burglar. I had helped him to commit one burglary, therefore I was a burglar, too. Yet I could stand and warm myself by his fire, and watch him empty his pockets, as though we had done nothing wonderful or wicked!
My blood froze. My heart sickened. My brain whirled. How I had liked this villain! How I had admired him! Now my liking and admiration must turn to loathing and disgust. I waited for the change. I longed to feel it in my heart. But — I longed and I waited in vain!
I saw that he was emptying his pockets; the table sparkled with their hoard. Rings by the dozen, diamonds by the score; bracelets, pendants, aigrettes, necklaces, pearls, rubies, amethysts, sapphires; and diamonds always, diamonds in everything, flashing bayonets of light, dazzling me — blinding me — making me disbelieve because I could no longer forget. Last of all came no gem, indeed, but my own revolver from an inner pocket. And that struck a chord. I suppose I said something — my hand flew out. I can see Raffles now, as he looked at me once more with a high arch over each clear eye. I can see him pick out the cartridges with his quiet, cynical smile, before he would give me my pistol back again.
"You mayn't believe it, Bunny," said he, "but I never carried a loaded one before. On the whole I think it gives one confidence. Yet it would be very awkward if anything went wrong; one might use it, and that's not the game at all, though I have often thought that the murderer who has just done the trick must have great sensations before things get too hot for him. Don't look so distressed, my dear chap. I've never had those sensations, and I don't suppose I ever shall."
"But this much you have done before?" said I hoarsely.
"Before? My dear Bunny, you offend me! Did it look like a first attempt? Of course I have done it before."
"Often?"
"Well — no! Not often enough to destroy the charm, at all events; never, as a matter of fact, unless I'm cursedly hard up. Did you hear about the Thimbleby diamonds? Well, that was the last time — and a poor lot of paste they were. Then there was the little business of the Dormer house-boat at Henley last year. That was mine also — such as it was. I've never brought off a really big coup yet; when I do I shall chuck it up."
Yes, I remembered both cases very well. To think that he was their author! It was incredible, outrageous, inconceivable. Then my eyes would fall upon the table, twinkling and glittering in a hundred places, and incredulity was at an end.
"How came you to begin?" I asked, as curiosity overcame mere wonder, and a fascination for his career gradually wove itself into my fascination for the man.
"Ah! that's a long story," said Raffles. "It was in the Colonies, when I was out there playing cricket. It's too long a story to tell you now, but I was in much the same fix that you were in tonight, and it was my only way out. I never meant it for anything more; but I'd tasted blood, and it was all over with me. Why should I work when I could steal? Why settle down to some humdrum uncongenial billet, when excitement, romance, danger and a decent living were all going begging together? Of course it's very wrong, but we can't all be moralists, and the distribution of wealth is very wrong to begin with. Besides, you're not at it all the time. I'm sick of quoting Gilbert's lines to myself, but they're profoundly true. I only wonder if you'll like the life as much as I do!"
"Like it?" I cried out. "Not I! It's no life for me. Once is enough!"
"You wouldn't give me a hand another time?"
"Don't ask me, Raffles. Don't ask me, for God's sake!"
"Yet you said you would do anything for me! You asked me to name my crime! But I knew at the time you didn't mean it; you didn't go back on me tonight, and that ought to satisfy me, goodness knows! I suppose I'm ungrateful, and unreasonable, and all that. I ought to let it end at this. But you're the very man for me, Bunny, the — very — man! Just think how we got through tonight. Not a scratch — not a hitch! There's nothing very terrible in it, you see; there never would be, while we worked together."
He was standing in front of me with a hand on either shoulder; he was smiling as he knew so well how to smile. I turned on my heel, planted my elbows on the chimney-piece, and my burning head between my hands. Next instant a still heartier hand had fallen on my back.
"All right, my boy! You are quite right and I'm worse than wrong. I'll never ask it again. Go, if you want to, and come again about mid-day for the cash. There was no bargain; but, of course, I'll get you out of your scrape — especially after the way you've stood by me tonight."
I was round again with my blood on fire.
"I'll do it again," I said, through my teeth.
He shook his head. "Not you," he said, smiling quite good-humoredly on my insane enthusiasm.
"I will," I cried with an oath. "I'll lend you a hand as often as you like! What does it matter now? I've been in it once. I'll be in it again. I've gone to the devil anyhow. I can't go back, and wouldn't if I could. Nothing matters another rap! When you want me, I'm your man!"
And that is how Raffles and I joined felonious forces on the Ides of March.
High quality dogness - ta much, dear Edosan
Malki!'s wife Nikki made this. :)
Every day we are forced to make difficult decisions: "Should I cross the street?" "Am I thirsty?" "Do I wear pants today?"
If you are looking for guidance, the Magic Cheezburger can provide it. Never again will you again be forced to ponder life's difficult decisions. The Cheezburger will give you peace. All Hail the Cheezburger.
*Yes, it works like a Magic 8 Ball, and it provides answers in LOLspeak.
If you are looking for guidance, the Magic Cheezburger can provide it. Never again will you again be forced to ponder life's difficult decisions. The Cheezburger will give you peace. All Hail the Cheezburger.
*Yes, it works like a Magic 8 Ball, and it provides answers in LOLspeak.
Hmmm...multitasking.
I see sarah palin's edjimacational policies in Alaska done a lotta good.
Lada and adrenaline aren't exactly two things commonly associated with each other.
I leave you now with this bit of inexplicable drollery, Gentle Categorian:
Hey! I may be easy, but I'm not cheap!
Stonerware playing cards are the fun new way to play your favorite card games. These attractive regulation cards feature wild hemp leaf backs and entertaining graphics. See the royal family smoke it up with different blazing methods that are sure to make your red eyes do a double take. When playing with these cards just remember one thing. The "high" card always wins!
Perfect when partnered with this deck!
ahem Amen.
Dear Ar0cketman sent this bit of microcar high weirdness.
moar funny pictures
Love those blue-cream (Anglicé: gray-and-beige) tortieshellie cats! I was owned by one for many years who'd make the same faces I do.
moar funny pictures
Ta much, dear Zaxy
It appears my blog will wind up three pages deep in lolage if'n Ah ain't careful, Gentle Categorian.
El Reg launches 'Skinny Fit' fashion range
Exclusive preview of international poster campaign
By Lester Haines
Posted in Bootnotes, 16th October 2009
We're delighted to announce today the launch of our "Skinny Fit" range of clothes, seen modelled here by the lovely Filippa for a forthcoming international poster campaign:
Please note that this image has not been digitally manipulated in any way. Filippa is a healthy and beautiful young woman who is naturally "small-boned", and anyone who says otherwise will find themselves on the wrong end of a fat writ. ...
Dig th' cutaway top.
Exclusive preview of international poster campaign
By Lester Haines
Posted in Bootnotes, 16th October 2009
We're delighted to announce today the launch of our "Skinny Fit" range of clothes, seen modelled here by the lovely Filippa for a forthcoming international poster campaign:
Please note that this image has not been digitally manipulated in any way. Filippa is a healthy and beautiful young woman who is naturally "small-boned", and anyone who says otherwise will find themselves on the wrong end of a fat writ. ...
Dig th' cutaway top.
Ageing isn't fun, but it's better than death, by at least, ooh . . . 8%
I discovered George Osborne was younger than me. Only by two months. But still: younger
Charlie Brooker
Monday 12 October 2009
... George Osborne's Tory conference speech last week left me in a state of shredded despair. Not because of anything he said, but because I'd just discovered he's younger than me. Only by two months, but still: younger. In a correctly functioning universe, my advanced age would make me his superior. If I deliberately knocked a glass of milk on to the floor, he'd have to clean it up. He'd be on all fours, scrubbing desperately at the floorboards while I sat back in my chair, resting my feet on his back, reading the Financial Times, occasionally glancing over the top to harrumph at his efforts, grinding my heel into his spine to underline each criticism. You missed a bit, boy. For pity's sake, show some gumption. Tongue, Osborne! Use your bloody tongue!
Wild fantasy, of course: there's no way Osborne would prostrate himself before me, lapping up my mess like a prison cell Betty. He's of grander stock than I. He's worth ten thousand hundred billion pounds, wipes his arse on back issues of Tatler, attended a public school so swish that even its coat of arms looks down its nose at you, and spends his weekends running around his estate, dressed like the Planters "Mr Peanut" mascot, wildly thrashing at the back of chimney sweeps' legs with a cane. I went to a comprehensive and have the social standing of a plughole.
But I'm resigned to the class difference. It's the age difference that rankles. In my head, senior politicians are supposed to be older than I am – for ever. No matter how much I age, part of their job is to be older and drier than me. At 38, Osborne feels too young for the world of politics. At 38, I feel too old for the world in general.
Age has been a lingering obsession of mine since I left my teens. However old I've been is too old. At 26, I felt totally washed up. At 32, I regretted wasting time worrying about my age as a 26-year-old, because now I was convinced I really was totally washed up. At 38, I look back at my 32-year-old self and regret that he wasted time with those regrets about wasted time. Then I regret wasting my current time regretting regrets about regrets. This is pretty sophisticated regretting I'm doing. That's the sole advantage of ageing: I can now effortlessly consolidate my regrets into one manageable block of misery. Otherwise, by the age of 44, I'd need complex database software just to keep track of precisely how many things I'm regretting at once. ...
I discovered George Osborne was younger than me. Only by two months. But still: younger
Charlie Brooker
Monday 12 October 2009
... George Osborne's Tory conference speech last week left me in a state of shredded despair. Not because of anything he said, but because I'd just discovered he's younger than me. Only by two months, but still: younger. In a correctly functioning universe, my advanced age would make me his superior. If I deliberately knocked a glass of milk on to the floor, he'd have to clean it up. He'd be on all fours, scrubbing desperately at the floorboards while I sat back in my chair, resting my feet on his back, reading the Financial Times, occasionally glancing over the top to harrumph at his efforts, grinding my heel into his spine to underline each criticism. You missed a bit, boy. For pity's sake, show some gumption. Tongue, Osborne! Use your bloody tongue!
Wild fantasy, of course: there's no way Osborne would prostrate himself before me, lapping up my mess like a prison cell Betty. He's of grander stock than I. He's worth ten thousand hundred billion pounds, wipes his arse on back issues of Tatler, attended a public school so swish that even its coat of arms looks down its nose at you, and spends his weekends running around his estate, dressed like the Planters "Mr Peanut" mascot, wildly thrashing at the back of chimney sweeps' legs with a cane. I went to a comprehensive and have the social standing of a plughole.
But I'm resigned to the class difference. It's the age difference that rankles. In my head, senior politicians are supposed to be older than I am – for ever. No matter how much I age, part of their job is to be older and drier than me. At 38, Osborne feels too young for the world of politics. At 38, I feel too old for the world in general.
Age has been a lingering obsession of mine since I left my teens. However old I've been is too old. At 26, I felt totally washed up. At 32, I regretted wasting time worrying about my age as a 26-year-old, because now I was convinced I really was totally washed up. At 38, I look back at my 32-year-old self and regret that he wasted time with those regrets about wasted time. Then I regret wasting my current time regretting regrets about regrets. This is pretty sophisticated regretting I'm doing. That's the sole advantage of ageing: I can now effortlessly consolidate my regrets into one manageable block of misery. Otherwise, by the age of 44, I'd need complex database software just to keep track of precisely how many things I'm regretting at once. ...
see more Lolcats and funny pictures
Damn straight. [Edited to add: I sees/seize it, I grabs it.]
Ta much, dear MSiegel
It's not a leopard, it's a cheetah.
"I love your nails. You must be a Libra."
BERLIN (Reuters) - Authorities in the western German city of Gelsenkirchen accidentally advertised porn among the services on offer for residents on its website.
"It was a mistake," said a spokesman for the city authorities Tuesday. "There was never any intention of the city providing pornography as a service." ...
"It was a mistake," said a spokesman for the city authorities Tuesday. "There was never any intention of the city providing pornography as a service." ...
There's some high-quality tea gear as well as high-quality high weirdness here.
The Oldest Trick in the Book
From Uncyclopedia, the content-free encyclopedia.
From UnBooks, the content-free textbook collection
The Oldest Trick in the Book is the infamous "Tapping on a person's left shoulder when you're standing on their right." This trick was first chronicled in cuneiform by the Ancient Sumerians, who lived on the windswept steppes of Mesopotamia. This chronicalisation also created "The Book" itself. In this article, we will chronologically summarise, from oldest to newest, the tricks in The Book. ...
Pure clarse from the very classy MSiegel
From Uncyclopedia, the content-free encyclopedia.
From UnBooks, the content-free textbook collection
The Oldest Trick in the Book is the infamous "Tapping on a person's left shoulder when you're standing on their right." This trick was first chronicled in cuneiform by the Ancient Sumerians, who lived on the windswept steppes of Mesopotamia. This chronicalisation also created "The Book" itself. In this article, we will chronologically summarise, from oldest to newest, the tricks in The Book. ...
Pure clarse from the very classy MSiegel
Ken's old band, Culture Bandits, used to practice in my basement a thousand years ago.
I found out last night that he is responsible for Polka Floyd and said, "OMG! That's you?!" I turned to the Bandits' bassist and said, "I'd always thought you were the genius!"
He responded, "Nope. It's Ken. It's always been Ken."
I found out last night that he is responsible for Polka Floyd and said, "OMG! That's you?!" I turned to the Bandits' bassist and said, "I'd always thought you were the genius!"
He responded, "Nope. It's Ken. It's always been Ken."
Bravely bold Sir Robin rode forth from Camelot
He was not afraid to die, O brave Sir Robin
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin
/ Em - - - - B7 Em - / - - - - D - G - /
/ G - - - D Asus4 D - / Em D G - D - B7 - /
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp
Or to have his eyes gouged out and his elbows broken
To have his kneecaps split and his body burned away
And his limbs all hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin
His head smashed in and his heart cut out
And his liver removed and his bowels unplugged
And his nostrils raped and his bottom burnt off
And his penis...
---Well that's enough music for now, lads...heh heh heh
/ G - D - / / / /
He was not afraid to die, O brave Sir Robin
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin
/ Em - - - - B7 Em - / - - - - D - G - /
/ G - - - D Asus4 D - / Em D G - D - B7 - /
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp
Or to have his eyes gouged out and his elbows broken
To have his kneecaps split and his body burned away
And his limbs all hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin
His head smashed in and his heart cut out
And his liver removed and his bowels unplugged
And his nostrils raped and his bottom burnt off
And his penis...
---Well that's enough music for now, lads...heh heh heh
/ G - D - / / / /
High quality bizarrerie.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm stuh-rrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeetttttttttttttcccccccccchhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
Ta much, dear Edosan
Ta much, dear Ar0cketman
Stiggy, Stiggy
He's our man!
If he can't drive it
No one can!!!
He's our man!
If he can't drive it
No one can!!!
Naow, will y'all tek this dang corstoom off'n me an' lessgo scare us on up some 'coons an' possums?!
The Scottish Deerhound -- In Engrish!
God Hates Elms T-Shirt
By Daniel Florien on August 21, 2009 in Atheism, Christianity, Humor, Superstition.
Yesterday, while ridiculing those who believe a supernatural being sent a tornado to Minneapolis because of TEH GAYS!!!, PZ Myers said:
"It seems, if you look at the conference schedule, that the liberal Lutherans were contemplating making some friendly statements about their gay congregants, so obviously this was an example of gentle smiting of sodomites.
Of course, also on the schedule were bible study and hymn singing — god hates “Onward Christian Soldiers”. And a middle school in North Branch — god hates education. It knocked down many trees — god hates elms."
God hates elms. What a great idea for a t-shirt, I thought. Some commenters on PZ’s site also thought so, so a friend and I whipped one up:
...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
By Daniel Florien on August 21, 2009 in Atheism, Christianity, Humor, Superstition.
Yesterday, while ridiculing those who believe a supernatural being sent a tornado to Minneapolis because of TEH GAYS!!!, PZ Myers said:
"It seems, if you look at the conference schedule, that the liberal Lutherans were contemplating making some friendly statements about their gay congregants, so obviously this was an example of gentle smiting of sodomites.
Of course, also on the schedule were bible study and hymn singing — god hates “Onward Christian Soldiers”. And a middle school in North Branch — god hates education. It knocked down many trees — god hates elms."
God hates elms. What a great idea for a t-shirt, I thought. Some commenters on PZ’s site also thought so, so a friend and I whipped one up:
...
Ta much, dear Anneliese
August 17, 2009
The 10 best silly events in Britain
The authors of new book Wacky Nation have taken part in more than 100 silly British events. Here's their pick
James Bamber and Sally Raynes
... 6. BRAMBLES CRICKET MATCH
The game of cricket can never be described as crazy or mad, but owing to a quirk of nature, there is one English cricketing tradition that definitely isn’t dull. Once a year a sandbank appears in the middle of The Solent, and two local yacht clubs take full advantage of this odd venue to play what is probably the world’s quickest cricket match.
Sailing to the venue at sunrise, the players waste no time in setting up the wicket once the water reveals the first grains of sand. Beyond the opening few balls when players maintain a modicum of etiquette, the game inevitably descends into a comic farce with diabolical bowling, rugby tackling and streaking dogs diverting play. Thirty minutes later, the sea rolls back in and the referee announces a waterlogged pitch prompting a hasty retreat back to the boats. Spectators are welcome, provided they have access to a boat, but only members of the two competing yacht clubs can play.
Location: Middle of The Solent. (50° 47′ 41″ N, 1° 17′ 15″ W)
Date: Saturday 22nd August 2009. 6am start (ouch!)
Further information: www.royal-southern.co.uk ...
... 1. WORLD GRAVY WRESTLING CHAMPIONSHIPS
A paddling pool in a pub beer garden, alongside a bowling green, provides the incongruous setting for the prestigious Gravy Wrestling Championships. Forget any expectations of Lucha Libra or WWF style action, with bucketfuls of Bistro added this is less a combat sport and more a very muddy pantomime. The aim is to wrestle your opponent into submission however judges also award points for humour and penalize competitors for force-feeding. In past contests, hula dancers and French maids have come face to face with judo experts and Hulk Hogan look-alikes, setting up truly David and Goliath battles.
It all makes for an amusing spectacle, but the highlight of gravy wrestling is watching the competitors struggle to stay on their feet let alone perform a flat back bump. Whilst the action may not be authentic, the gravy certainly is, especially if you find yourself face down in the brown slop at some point in the day. Just don’t request extra gravy with your roast dinner if you hang around for lunch.
Location: Rose and Crown, Bacup, Lancashire
Date: August Bank Holiday Monday
Further Information: www.rosenbowl.co.uk ...
ALSO FUN AND WORTH NOTING:
... WORLD STONE SKIMMING CHAMPIONSHIPS
‘Toss on!’ Everyone knows how to skim a stone, but purists will be disappointed if they expect to turn up and win the world championship based on their skimming prowess. With three attempts, competitors need only manage three skims whilst hoping their stone stays within the confines of a now flooded, disused quarry on Easdale Island. Then, it’s all about how far the stone travels that decides the winner. Intriguingly, the quarry is just 63 metres long, but anyone who manages to achieve the not impossible feat of hitting the back wall will probably become world champion.
The championships are open to everyone, even the smallest toddlers, provided they can stand up without too much assistance. The same applies to the men, who often perform abysmally, skimming with power instead of technique. Younger entrants demonstrate neither power nor technique, probably too weary of falling into the water. There is a pre-skim party on the Saturday night with BBQ and live music and much fervent debate amongst the locals on correct skimming technique.
Location: Easdale Island, near Oban, Argyll and Bute
Date: Sunday 27th September 2009
Further information: www.stoneskimming.com ...
The 10 best silly events in Britain
The authors of new book Wacky Nation have taken part in more than 100 silly British events. Here's their pick
James Bamber and Sally Raynes
... 6. BRAMBLES CRICKET MATCH
The game of cricket can never be described as crazy or mad, but owing to a quirk of nature, there is one English cricketing tradition that definitely isn’t dull. Once a year a sandbank appears in the middle of The Solent, and two local yacht clubs take full advantage of this odd venue to play what is probably the world’s quickest cricket match.
Sailing to the venue at sunrise, the players waste no time in setting up the wicket once the water reveals the first grains of sand. Beyond the opening few balls when players maintain a modicum of etiquette, the game inevitably descends into a comic farce with diabolical bowling, rugby tackling and streaking dogs diverting play. Thirty minutes later, the sea rolls back in and the referee announces a waterlogged pitch prompting a hasty retreat back to the boats. Spectators are welcome, provided they have access to a boat, but only members of the two competing yacht clubs can play.
Location: Middle of The Solent. (50° 47′ 41″ N, 1° 17′ 15″ W)
Date: Saturday 22nd August 2009. 6am start (ouch!)
Further information: www.royal-southern.co.uk ...
... 1. WORLD GRAVY WRESTLING CHAMPIONSHIPS
A paddling pool in a pub beer garden, alongside a bowling green, provides the incongruous setting for the prestigious Gravy Wrestling Championships. Forget any expectations of Lucha Libra or WWF style action, with bucketfuls of Bistro added this is less a combat sport and more a very muddy pantomime. The aim is to wrestle your opponent into submission however judges also award points for humour and penalize competitors for force-feeding. In past contests, hula dancers and French maids have come face to face with judo experts and Hulk Hogan look-alikes, setting up truly David and Goliath battles.
It all makes for an amusing spectacle, but the highlight of gravy wrestling is watching the competitors struggle to stay on their feet let alone perform a flat back bump. Whilst the action may not be authentic, the gravy certainly is, especially if you find yourself face down in the brown slop at some point in the day. Just don’t request extra gravy with your roast dinner if you hang around for lunch.
Location: Rose and Crown, Bacup, Lancashire
Date: August Bank Holiday Monday
Further Information: www.rosenbowl.co.uk ...
ALSO FUN AND WORTH NOTING:
... WORLD STONE SKIMMING CHAMPIONSHIPS
‘Toss on!’ Everyone knows how to skim a stone, but purists will be disappointed if they expect to turn up and win the world championship based on their skimming prowess. With three attempts, competitors need only manage three skims whilst hoping their stone stays within the confines of a now flooded, disused quarry on Easdale Island. Then, it’s all about how far the stone travels that decides the winner. Intriguingly, the quarry is just 63 metres long, but anyone who manages to achieve the not impossible feat of hitting the back wall will probably become world champion.
The championships are open to everyone, even the smallest toddlers, provided they can stand up without too much assistance. The same applies to the men, who often perform abysmally, skimming with power instead of technique. Younger entrants demonstrate neither power nor technique, probably too weary of falling into the water. There is a pre-skim party on the Saturday night with BBQ and live music and much fervent debate amongst the locals on correct skimming technique.
Location: Easdale Island, near Oban, Argyll and Bute
Date: Sunday 27th September 2009
Further information: www.stoneskimming.com ...
Ta much, dear DontheFox
"The second question you're always asked when visiting Louisiana is, 'Et mudbugs yet?'"
"What's the first?"
"Oh, that varies, but the second is always, 'Et mudbugs yet?'"
- From a Wasteland comic book story Del Close wrote
Darwinists Strike Again With T-Rex Eating Ichthus Fish Eating Darwin Fish Emblem - The Holy Observer
Epic (Dar)win! from dear DontheFox
Site in Japanese - I posted an English version and many illustrations here.
Charlie Brooker's screen burn
If I died at the hands of a serial killer I'd probably just think, 'Ooh, how exciting, it's like something off the telly'
o Charlie Brooker
o The Guardian, Saturday 1 August 2009
For all its delusions of grandeur, TV drama rarely deals with authentically frightening subjects. Except murder, which has been so overdone it's almost ceased to seem like a real or scary phenomenon. If I died at the hands of a serial killer I'd probably just think, "Ooh, how exciting, it's like something off the telly", before enjoying a nice lie down and a bleed.
Every so often, however, along comes a drama that takes a long, hard look at something you'd rather blank out altogether, something large and menacing and beyond your control. Take Threads, the BBC's profoundly horrifying 1984 nuclear war epic, which brought Armageddon kicking and screaming into the nation's living rooms. You can get it on DVD or find it online: even today, when we spend approximately 98% less time worrying about mushroom clouds, watching it feels like being repeatedly punched in the kidneys during a powerful comedown.
It's hard to know whether shows like this actually do any good. I saw Threads when I was about 12 - too young to handle it, frankly - and it left me feeling despairing and helpless. Perhaps if I'd grown up to be a policymaker it would've been a positive influence. But I didn't. I grew up to be a neurotic bellend. ...
If I died at the hands of a serial killer I'd probably just think, 'Ooh, how exciting, it's like something off the telly'
o Charlie Brooker
o The Guardian, Saturday 1 August 2009
For all its delusions of grandeur, TV drama rarely deals with authentically frightening subjects. Except murder, which has been so overdone it's almost ceased to seem like a real or scary phenomenon. If I died at the hands of a serial killer I'd probably just think, "Ooh, how exciting, it's like something off the telly", before enjoying a nice lie down and a bleed.
Every so often, however, along comes a drama that takes a long, hard look at something you'd rather blank out altogether, something large and menacing and beyond your control. Take Threads, the BBC's profoundly horrifying 1984 nuclear war epic, which brought Armageddon kicking and screaming into the nation's living rooms. You can get it on DVD or find it online: even today, when we spend approximately 98% less time worrying about mushroom clouds, watching it feels like being repeatedly punched in the kidneys during a powerful comedown.
It's hard to know whether shows like this actually do any good. I saw Threads when I was about 12 - too young to handle it, frankly - and it left me feeling despairing and helpless. Perhaps if I'd grown up to be a policymaker it would've been a positive influence. But I didn't. I grew up to be a neurotic bellend. ...
Monkey would not have had Jeremy Clarkson pegged as a fan of rap or hip hop. MC Clarkson? We don't think so. But this hasn't stopped YouTuber Swede Mason from mashing up a Jeremy Clarkson Beatbox from clips of the big man on Top Gear. All together now: "Powerslide, powerslide, powerslide, powerslide ..."
...powerslide, powerslide, powerslide, powerslide...
...powerslide, powerslide, powerslide, powerslide...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
WAH! SCHWA! WAH!
A love of beauty and the title you gave the strip are the reasons, Griffy. Education ain't required for recognizing true beauty and 'preciatin' it.......although it certainly can enlarge the boundaries of what one considers beautiful.
Ta much, dear MSiegel
moar funny pictures
Maid: I wouldn't want no policeman to catch me without no petticoat!
Mae West: No policeman? How about a nice fireman, hmm?
From the classic film She Done Him Wrong
... All that is left to do is flip back the plastic shield and press the red button for an explosive sound effect. But what really happens when you press the button? We're not sure. Perhaps 15 kittens explode; perhaps your bank account lowers by a fraction of a cent; perhaps you start an interplanetary war trillions of parsecs away by blowing up the caravan of Queen Knorb'l. But one thing is clear - before pushing the button, you must ask yourself, "Do I feel lucky, punk? Well...do I?" Because, who knows, the explosion you hear from the USB Doomsday Device might just be the sound of your brain vaporizing.
Oh yeah, and you can also use the USB Doomsday Device as a 4 port USB hub. No one will mess with you with this baby on your desk. ...
Oh yeah, and you can also use the USB Doomsday Device as a 4 port USB hub. No one will mess with you with this baby on your desk. ...
Throughout infinite time and space, you can always use more USB ports
I seek audience with the ThinkGeek Consciousness under peaceful contract, according to Convention Fifteen of the Shadow Proclamation. This is the vehicle of the Time Lord. TARDIS, or Time And Relative Dimension In Space has its chameleon circuit broken, so it's stuck looking like an old British Police box from Earth year zero-point-five-slash-apple-slash-five-zero, or 1950 by local reckoning. That, and it's become a 4 port USB hub a mere 11 centimeters tall. ...
I seek audience with the ThinkGeek Consciousness under peaceful contract, according to Convention Fifteen of the Shadow Proclamation. This is the vehicle of the Time Lord. TARDIS, or Time And Relative Dimension In Space has its chameleon circuit broken, so it's stuck looking like an old British Police box from Earth year zero-point-five-slash-apple-slash-five-zero, or 1950 by local reckoning. That, and it's become a 4 port USB hub a mere 11 centimeters tall. ...
Ta much, always awesome Edosan
The very fabric of society is breaking down around us. What the hell is there left to believe in?
o Charlie Brooker
o The Guardian, Monday 13 July 2009
... The internet. Can we trust in that? Of course not. Give it six months and we'll probably discover Google's sewn together by orphans in sweatshops. Or that Wi-Fi does something horrible to your brain, like eating your fondest memories and replacing them with drawings of cross-eyed bats and a strong smell of puke. There's surely a great dystopian sci-fi novel yet to be written about a world in which it's suddenly discovered that wireless broadband signals deaden the human brain, slowly robbing us of all emotion, until after 10 years of exposure we're all either rutting in stairwells or listlessly reversing our cars over our own offspring with nary the merest glimmer of sympathy or pain on our faces. It'll be set in Basingstoke and called, "Cuh, Typical."
What about each other? Society? Can we trust us? Doubt it. We're probably not even real, as was revealed in the popular documentary The Matrix. That bloke next door? Made of pixels. Your co-workers? Pixels. You? One pixel. One measly pixel. You haven't even got shoes, for Christ's sake.
As the very fabric of life breaks down around us, even language itself seems unreliable. These words don't make sense. The vowels and consonants you're hearing in your mind's ear right now are being generated by mere squiggles on a page or screen. Pointless hieroglyphics. Shapes. You're staring at shapes and hearing them in your head. When you see the word "trust", can you even trust that? Why? It's just shapes!
Right now all our faith has poured out of the old institutions, and there's nowhere left to put it. We need new institutions to believe in, and fast. Doesn't matter what they're made of. Knit them out of string, wool, anything. Quickly, quickly. Before we start worshipping insects.
o Charlie Brooker
o The Guardian, Monday 13 July 2009
... The internet. Can we trust in that? Of course not. Give it six months and we'll probably discover Google's sewn together by orphans in sweatshops. Or that Wi-Fi does something horrible to your brain, like eating your fondest memories and replacing them with drawings of cross-eyed bats and a strong smell of puke. There's surely a great dystopian sci-fi novel yet to be written about a world in which it's suddenly discovered that wireless broadband signals deaden the human brain, slowly robbing us of all emotion, until after 10 years of exposure we're all either rutting in stairwells or listlessly reversing our cars over our own offspring with nary the merest glimmer of sympathy or pain on our faces. It'll be set in Basingstoke and called, "Cuh, Typical."
What about each other? Society? Can we trust us? Doubt it. We're probably not even real, as was revealed in the popular documentary The Matrix. That bloke next door? Made of pixels. Your co-workers? Pixels. You? One pixel. One measly pixel. You haven't even got shoes, for Christ's sake.
As the very fabric of life breaks down around us, even language itself seems unreliable. These words don't make sense. The vowels and consonants you're hearing in your mind's ear right now are being generated by mere squiggles on a page or screen. Pointless hieroglyphics. Shapes. You're staring at shapes and hearing them in your head. When you see the word "trust", can you even trust that? Why? It's just shapes!
Right now all our faith has poured out of the old institutions, and there's nowhere left to put it. We need new institutions to believe in, and fast. Doesn't matter what they're made of. Knit them out of string, wool, anything. Quickly, quickly. Before we start worshipping insects.
"What've you got?"
Ta much, dear Zaxy
Numbas two, four, seven and thirteen in this slideshow are also highly recommended.
Want a Ren and Stimpy© sound byte or file? You'll find it here, Gentle Categorian.
Quack! indeed, and ta much, dear MouthAlmighty
Nope, just two corrupt conservative parties. One is more conservative than the conservatives, what with their spying on you and planned national ID cards; and the other is more corrupt, what with their moat-cleaning and duck-house-building bills which you paid.
Screw 'em both - vote Green.
Ed. Note: Bill Griffith (Griffy) once designed Wacky Packs.
Yes, I LOL'd.
I'm so sorry about your politicos' causing that dreadful mess, United (?) Kingdom.
Abyssinians rock.
I'm hip........and fetching my fetching beret.
Pure clarse, this 'ere one.
Uh...
ahhh...
mmmmmmmmmmmm......
ahhh...
mmmmmmmmmmmm......
'Swhat it looks like, anyway.
Easy-open tear strip! Easy-open tear strip! Easy-open tear strip!
Schweinhund!!!
Noooeees! They B stealin mah lunch!
nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom
A retrograde Mercury poster child if I've ever seen one.
Yup. The best way to fight evil (any fear that doesn't help you survive is based in evil) is by laughing at it.
Scarecrow mocking MPs over expenses springs up in Jamie Oliver's village
A scarecrow poking fun at money-grabbing MPs is one of nearly 70 which have sprung up in Jamie Oliver's home village.
Last Updated: 5:04PM BST 25 May 2009
The scarecrow poking fun at money-grabbing MPs Photo: PETER LAWSON
The figure is part of an invasion of novelty bird-scarers, including Darth Vader, the Village People and Margaret Thatcher, which have popped up all over the tiny rural idyll of Clavering, Essex.
But one enterprising resident saw an opportunity to make a dig at scandal-hit politicians who have been exposed by the Daily Telegraph's investigation into MPs expenses.
The scarecrow of a gardener pushing a lawnmower has popped up outside a pretty thatched cottage in the village.
Signs offering 'moat clearing', 'removals organised for flipping' and stating 'Invoices can be sent direct to Westminster if desired' have also been errected.
Local MP for Saffron Walden Alan Hazlehurst spent £12,000 on gardening costs over five years.
Farmer Peter Balaam, who made the effigy, said he was not pointing the finger at him but at MPs in general.
He said: "I don't think our local MP has had his nose in the trough but it is a dig at all MPs who have had their noses in the trough.
"We are country people, leading an honest life.
"There is so much red tape attached to our industry and then you see there's so much money just being frittered away. It's not right."
He added: "The village came up with the scarecrow competition and I wasn't particularly motivated by building one and then I thought, I'll do one with the MPs in mind.
"We have had lots of people walking by and stopping for a look. I think it's gone down well."
Victoria Cook, who helped come up with the idea for the figures as part of the build-up for next week's village fete, said the scarecrow was "fantastic". ...
... Organisers of the fete have been astounded by the response to their idea after 67 figures appeared on grass verges, in gardens and on benches in the pretty village. ...
A scarecrow poking fun at money-grabbing MPs is one of nearly 70 which have sprung up in Jamie Oliver's home village.
Last Updated: 5:04PM BST 25 May 2009
The scarecrow poking fun at money-grabbing MPs Photo: PETER LAWSON
The figure is part of an invasion of novelty bird-scarers, including Darth Vader, the Village People and Margaret Thatcher, which have popped up all over the tiny rural idyll of Clavering, Essex.
But one enterprising resident saw an opportunity to make a dig at scandal-hit politicians who have been exposed by the Daily Telegraph's investigation into MPs expenses.
The scarecrow of a gardener pushing a lawnmower has popped up outside a pretty thatched cottage in the village.
Signs offering 'moat clearing', 'removals organised for flipping' and stating 'Invoices can be sent direct to Westminster if desired' have also been errected.
Local MP for Saffron Walden Alan Hazlehurst spent £12,000 on gardening costs over five years.
Farmer Peter Balaam, who made the effigy, said he was not pointing the finger at him but at MPs in general.
He said: "I don't think our local MP has had his nose in the trough but it is a dig at all MPs who have had their noses in the trough.
"We are country people, leading an honest life.
"There is so much red tape attached to our industry and then you see there's so much money just being frittered away. It's not right."
He added: "The village came up with the scarecrow competition and I wasn't particularly motivated by building one and then I thought, I'll do one with the MPs in mind.
"We have had lots of people walking by and stopping for a look. I think it's gone down well."
Victoria Cook, who helped come up with the idea for the figures as part of the build-up for next week's village fete, said the scarecrow was "fantastic". ...
... Organisers of the fete have been astounded by the response to their idea after 67 figures appeared on grass verges, in gardens and on benches in the pretty village. ...
Or, if you prefer sounding like Clouseau, LOLminkehs.
I ahem dig lolfoxen the most.
I hope cleaning his moat won't cost £2000!
I'd send this to Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo had I their email addresses.
No mere purveyors of dull-arse Cave Canem or Please Shut the Gate signs, these folks have a sense of humour!
Par example:
Spiders Keep Out
The Cat is Irrational
The Children are Tame
Caution: Man Sleeping
Beware the Monsters
Par example:
Spiders Keep Out
The Cat is Irrational
The Children are Tame
Caution: Man Sleeping
Beware the Monsters
heh heh heh
May 17, 2009
Iggy Pop on his life's highs and lows
He’s lived the rock’n’roll dream — and the nightmare. Now, at 62, Iggy Pop is facing up to the past he regrets and the family secrets that sent him on the road to self- destruction.
By Bryan Appleyard
I ask Iggy Pop, willy-waver, self-mutilator, stage-diver, car-wrecker, ex-dope fiend, ex-thief, punk progenitor and Stooges singer, why Swiftcover, online seller of car insurance, wanted to use him to front their recent UK advertising campaign.
He squirms and grins sheepishly. There’s a distinct blush beneath the coppery leather, newly scarred skin of his face. “This is so embarrassing. I was afraid you’d ask me that. This is so f***ing embarrassing.”
He bangs the table and breaks into a high-pitched giggle. “They said they wanted this series of ads to be performed by somebody…” long pause, “…somebody you can’t help but like!”
We stare at each other in silence, eyebrows raised, jaws dropped.
“You mean,” I — shocked, disbelieving — say, “that almost 45 years of offensive, obnoxious, downright nasty rock’n’roll, of systematic debauchery and subversion — your life’s work — has come to nothing? People can’t help but like you!”
“Exactly!”
“You did it, Iggy, you failed upwards!”
Now we’re both giggling. “That’s a very nervous position to be in,” he gasps, “to be liked!” ...
I love you, Unca Iggy - I'm marginal myself.
Iggy Pop on his life's highs and lows
He’s lived the rock’n’roll dream — and the nightmare. Now, at 62, Iggy Pop is facing up to the past he regrets and the family secrets that sent him on the road to self- destruction.
By Bryan Appleyard
I ask Iggy Pop, willy-waver, self-mutilator, stage-diver, car-wrecker, ex-dope fiend, ex-thief, punk progenitor and Stooges singer, why Swiftcover, online seller of car insurance, wanted to use him to front their recent UK advertising campaign.
He squirms and grins sheepishly. There’s a distinct blush beneath the coppery leather, newly scarred skin of his face. “This is so embarrassing. I was afraid you’d ask me that. This is so f***ing embarrassing.”
He bangs the table and breaks into a high-pitched giggle. “They said they wanted this series of ads to be performed by somebody…” long pause, “…somebody you can’t help but like!”
We stare at each other in silence, eyebrows raised, jaws dropped.
“You mean,” I — shocked, disbelieving — say, “that almost 45 years of offensive, obnoxious, downright nasty rock’n’roll, of systematic debauchery and subversion — your life’s work — has come to nothing? People can’t help but like you!”
“Exactly!”
“You did it, Iggy, you failed upwards!”
Now we’re both giggling. “That’s a very nervous position to be in,” he gasps, “to be liked!” ...
I love you, Unca Iggy - I'm marginal myself.
Splish splash I was takin' a bath
Long about a Saturday night........
Ta much for this, dear Zaxy!
Dear Edosan once said, "The whole world just stops whenever a horse rolls."
True dat, Mon.
When we were still riding, Mom and I took the dogs along when our lessons would be held outside. They quickly learned proper etiquette, but Ms K sure barked like hell the first time she saw us a-horseback.
"WTF are you doing, sitting up on top of those big ole hayburners?! Are you nuts?!" was her initial attitude. Ms K was a very logical dog, and this seemed too ridiculous for silence. Mom and I shushed her, and she watched intently and silently as we worked on the flat and over fences. She seemed satisfied that we actually knew what we were doing, and began grinning as the lesson progressed. Our riding never made her bark again.
The first time a horse began to roll in their presence, Ms K again let loose a stream of barking invective.
"WTF?! OMFG!" she said, over and over. The horse paused after he'd laid down, and as we shushed her he gave her a look which seemed to say pretty much what we were telling her:
"And WTF is your problem, Lady? You're a dog! Don't tell me you never roll!"
He then rolled and thrashed around in earnest, ignoring her, and she eventually quieted. Both dogs stared and stared, then he stood up and got down on his other side and rolled and thrashed about some more. He made his point. Rolling horses never made her bark again either. The two of them eventually seemed amused by it, at least as much as we.
They very quickly became used to being around horses and came to enjoy their company, and the horses liked them a lot - even those with shocking canine-related reputations.
The potential bond between horse and hound obviously goes far beyond breeds and breeding. Only one of the four breeds that went into the making of Ms K and A has any horsey history whatsoever. Despite this they soon began looking round happily and excitedly whenever they heard a television horse's whinny or nicker, and would all but slump back down into their beds when they realized they'd been duped.
Dear Edosan once said, "The whole world just stops whenever a horse rolls."
True dat, Mon.
When we were still riding, Mom and I took the dogs along when our lessons would be held outside. They quickly learned proper etiquette, but Ms K sure barked like hell the first time she saw us a-horseback.
"WTF are you doing, sitting up on top of those big ole hayburners?! Are you nuts?!" was her initial attitude. Ms K was a very logical dog, and this seemed too ridiculous for silence. Mom and I shushed her, and she watched intently and silently as we worked on the flat and over fences. She seemed satisfied that we actually knew what we were doing, and began grinning as the lesson progressed. Our riding never made her bark again.
The first time a horse began to roll in their presence, Ms K again let loose a stream of barking invective.
"WTF?! OMFG!" she said, over and over. The horse paused after he'd laid down, and as we shushed her he gave her a look which seemed to say pretty much what we were telling her:
"And WTF is your problem, Lady? You're a dog! Don't tell me you never roll!"
He then rolled and thrashed around in earnest, ignoring her, and she eventually quieted. Both dogs stared and stared, then he stood up and got down on his other side and rolled and thrashed about some more. He made his point. Rolling horses never made her bark again either. The two of them eventually seemed amused by it, at least as much as we.
They very quickly became used to being around horses and came to enjoy their company, and the horses liked them a lot - even those with shocking canine-related reputations.
The potential bond between horse and hound obviously goes far beyond breeds and breeding. Only one of the four breeds that went into the making of Ms K and A has any horsey history whatsoever. Despite this they soon began looking round happily and excitedly whenever they heard a television horse's whinny or nicker, and would all but slump back down into their beds when they realized they'd been duped.
Nicked from dear MouthAlmighty, who'd nicked it from dear Shell42970.
This is where Weebl and Bob live. It's set up so the most recent cartoons are listed first.
Ah, the very beginning! Da very foist Weebl and Bob cartoon!
... I love the pie.
We live the pie.
Hurry up the pie. ...
We live the pie.
Hurry up the pie. ...
Links to all seven great episodes of Bob's Week in France!
A fittingly surreal conclusion to Bob's Week in France, brought to you by Kreml Hair Tonic - It's Spiffy!™
Sound advice about biccies from our Bob.
Hob Nob = Success!
Hob Nob = Success!
Ain't that no shit.
Note bear in ill-fitting hat, girls and boys.
no 1 wud blamez u.
That was no run-of-th'-mill cigar, Zip: it was probably a blunt.
Legalize the herb, let folks smoke it in pubs, and profits will be much ahem higher.
It's partly 'cause he's an ass, and partly because Mercury's retrograde.
After the 31st we'll all be able to speak and type again, and even simultaneously walk and chew gum.
Dig th' Darth Vader helmet.
Belly wub! Belly wub! Belly wub!
... There are few things so faithful as a dish of sausages, not the indigestible leadeny things cooks make in the country, but the light savoury productions of the practised hand; and friend Facey having eaten about a pound and a half of Minshull Vernon ones felt equal to any emergency; he didn't think he would ever be hungry again, so he didn't pocket his customary crust. ...
... "Be off, then," said Facey, getting the Dragon of Wantley short by the head, giving him at the same time a refresher on the shoulder with the pig-jobber whip and a touch of the spur in the flank. This gave the field, who had hitherto enjoyed a side and a back view of our friend, the benefit of a front one also, thus exhibiting his watchful pig-eyes, a peculiar expression of countenance, his battered hat and shabby shirt. No one knows how ungentlemanly he can look, until he has seen himself in a shocking bad hat. ...
... On a richly inlaid Indian work-table on the right, lay a splendid wreath of pearls, with three important pendants.
"Oh, what loves of pearls!" ejaculated Mrs Watkins, clasping her hands, thinking how she would cut Lucy down with her diamonds. ...
... As it was, he let off his steam by abusing the sham-fox system generally, declaring he would rather hunt with a pack of rabbit-beagles on foot, than condescend to such work. "A rat in a barn, with a terrier, is worth two of it," said he. ...
... Mr. Romford, having first ordered Leotard for Mrs. Somerville, and the Baker for his own riding out of the brilliant galaxy of stubbornness and vice with which his stable was supplied....
... The lofty vehicle, which was painted dark green, was ventilated from the roof, and displayed on its side, in white letters on a black ground, the walking advertisement of "AUGUSTUS STOTFOLD, ESQUIRE'S DEER-CART, PICKERING NOOK." The vehicle, as Hood says in his "Epping Hunt," was --
In shape like half a hearse — tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased! ...
...and Mr Romford was surprised to learn from Independent Jimmy they were only five or six miles from Dalberry Lees.
"Ar'll show you the way," said Jimmy, jumping onto the bare-backed grey; and taking a line of his own, irrespective of either gates or gaps, he proceeded to make his way across country.
"Ar think nout o' this stag-huntin'," observed Jimmy, running the grey at a great on-and-off bank, with a wide ditch on each side.
"Nor I," rejoined Mr Romford, following him.
"When you've catched the stag, ye're ne better off than ye were afore," observed Jimmy.
"Just so," said Romford.
Jimmy then angled a wide pasture at a trot, and was presently contemplating a rough, bush-entwined, rail-mended-fence with a too obvious brook on the other side. Jimmy ran the grey at a rail, but, hitting it with its fore feet, it landed on its head, shooting Jimmy well over it.
"Greate numb beast!" exclaimed Jimmy, catching the horse as it rose. He then pulled the rail out for Romford. ...
... Now he takes a startling stone-wall, at which the Baker bounds so as to hit his rider's head on the impending branch of an ash and knocks his old hat right down over his nose.
"Rot the beggar!" exclaims Romford, spurring him across a rough fallow, extricating his head as he goes.....
- Robert S Surtees, from MR FACEY ROMFORD'S HOUNDS (1865)
... "Be off, then," said Facey, getting the Dragon of Wantley short by the head, giving him at the same time a refresher on the shoulder with the pig-jobber whip and a touch of the spur in the flank. This gave the field, who had hitherto enjoyed a side and a back view of our friend, the benefit of a front one also, thus exhibiting his watchful pig-eyes, a peculiar expression of countenance, his battered hat and shabby shirt. No one knows how ungentlemanly he can look, until he has seen himself in a shocking bad hat. ...
... On a richly inlaid Indian work-table on the right, lay a splendid wreath of pearls, with three important pendants.
"Oh, what loves of pearls!" ejaculated Mrs Watkins, clasping her hands, thinking how she would cut Lucy down with her diamonds. ...
... As it was, he let off his steam by abusing the sham-fox system generally, declaring he would rather hunt with a pack of rabbit-beagles on foot, than condescend to such work. "A rat in a barn, with a terrier, is worth two of it," said he. ...
... Mr. Romford, having first ordered Leotard for Mrs. Somerville, and the Baker for his own riding out of the brilliant galaxy of stubbornness and vice with which his stable was supplied....
... The lofty vehicle, which was painted dark green, was ventilated from the roof, and displayed on its side, in white letters on a black ground, the walking advertisement of "AUGUSTUS STOTFOLD, ESQUIRE'S DEER-CART, PICKERING NOOK." The vehicle, as Hood says in his "Epping Hunt," was --
In shape like half a hearse — tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased! ...
...and Mr Romford was surprised to learn from Independent Jimmy they were only five or six miles from Dalberry Lees.
"Ar'll show you the way," said Jimmy, jumping onto the bare-backed grey; and taking a line of his own, irrespective of either gates or gaps, he proceeded to make his way across country.
"Ar think nout o' this stag-huntin'," observed Jimmy, running the grey at a great on-and-off bank, with a wide ditch on each side.
"Nor I," rejoined Mr Romford, following him.
"When you've catched the stag, ye're ne better off than ye were afore," observed Jimmy.
"Just so," said Romford.
Jimmy then angled a wide pasture at a trot, and was presently contemplating a rough, bush-entwined, rail-mended-fence with a too obvious brook on the other side. Jimmy ran the grey at a rail, but, hitting it with its fore feet, it landed on its head, shooting Jimmy well over it.
"Greate numb beast!" exclaimed Jimmy, catching the horse as it rose. He then pulled the rail out for Romford. ...
... Now he takes a startling stone-wall, at which the Baker bounds so as to hit his rider's head on the impending branch of an ash and knocks his old hat right down over his nose.
"Rot the beggar!" exclaims Romford, spurring him across a rough fallow, extricating his head as he goes.....
- Robert S Surtees, from MR FACEY ROMFORD'S HOUNDS (1865)
M'tags say it all.
M'tags say it all.
Limerico di Galileo [13 stanzas]
by Martin J. Murphy
[excerpt]
... The Church caused a major imbroglio
By correcting Copernicus' folio
Yet it couldn't discern
The abuse it would earn
In forbidding the whole Dialogo?
By killing Sidereus Nuncius
For the news that their views were defunctus,
The renaissance ended
And darkness descended
Upon the Dominican dunces.
In spite of the Vatican's dissuasion
Galileo still rose to the occasion.
Though once deemed heretical,
He proved more prophetical
Than those of a clerical persuasion.
by Martin J. Murphy
[excerpt]
... The Church caused a major imbroglio
By correcting Copernicus' folio
Yet it couldn't discern
The abuse it would earn
In forbidding the whole Dialogo?
By killing Sidereus Nuncius
For the news that their views were defunctus,
The renaissance ended
And darkness descended
Upon the Dominican dunces.
In spite of the Vatican's dissuasion
Galileo still rose to the occasion.
Though once deemed heretical,
He proved more prophetical
Than those of a clerical persuasion.
My bundle's on Bugs, mate.
Not a bit Steve is our Steve.
snicker snicker snicker
This is pure class - the ignorance, mis-spellings and grammatical errors are perfect.
It's also satire - check a dictionary.
A Kinder Egg that's not für die Kinder!
A Stumbler Of Quality. Changing my screen resolution, using the new format, and shutting off Greasemonkey so I could add him (new improved facebook stylée!) to my friends list was actually worth the effort.
Italian prostitutes to dress as nuns
Prostitutes in Italy who have been ordered to stop wearing skimpy clothing while they tout for business in broad daylight plan to dress as nuns instead.
By Nick Squires In Rome
19 Sep 2008
By donning nuns' black and white habits street walkers hope to make the tough new legislation so confusing that it becomes unworkable. ...
... The mayor of Rome, Gianni Alemanno, unveiled a decree this week which will ban the capital's thousands of street prostitutes from wearing "unseemly and indecent clothing", saying the sight of barely clothed young women distracted male motorists and caused accidents.
Even the way in which sex workers stand is under scrutiny - the decree bans the women from "adopting poses or behaviour or wearing clothing that unequivocally manifest the intention to solicit or practise the activity of prostitution".
Sex worker welfare groups have called the decree absurd and have pledged to challenge it in any way they can.
"We'll dress as nuns so that the police will arrest scantily dressed girls outside discos or other women with their cleavage on show," said Pia Covre, of the Committee for the Rights of Prostitutes.
"The idea of wearing gowns or habits down to the feet is to confront the decrees which limit even the freedom of what you can wear," she told the Corriere della Sera newspaper. ...
Prostitutes in Italy who have been ordered to stop wearing skimpy clothing while they tout for business in broad daylight plan to dress as nuns instead.
By Nick Squires In Rome
19 Sep 2008
By donning nuns' black and white habits street walkers hope to make the tough new legislation so confusing that it becomes unworkable. ...
... The mayor of Rome, Gianni Alemanno, unveiled a decree this week which will ban the capital's thousands of street prostitutes from wearing "unseemly and indecent clothing", saying the sight of barely clothed young women distracted male motorists and caused accidents.
Even the way in which sex workers stand is under scrutiny - the decree bans the women from "adopting poses or behaviour or wearing clothing that unequivocally manifest the intention to solicit or practise the activity of prostitution".
Sex worker welfare groups have called the decree absurd and have pledged to challenge it in any way they can.
"We'll dress as nuns so that the police will arrest scantily dressed girls outside discos or other women with their cleavage on show," said Pia Covre, of the Committee for the Rights of Prostitutes.
"The idea of wearing gowns or habits down to the feet is to confront the decrees which limit even the freedom of what you can wear," she told the Corriere della Sera newspaper. ...
Kilpatrick's team says fund-raising site is fake
Don't donate, supporters told
By DAVID ASHENFELTER, JOE SWICKARD and MIKE WENDLAND
FREE PRESS STAFF WRITERS
September 7, 2008
A Web site purporting to raise money for Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick's $1-million restitution bill in the text messaging scandal is a hoax, the mayor's legal team said Sunday.
"It is not an authorized site by the mayor or anyone he's affiliated with," said mayoral spokesman James Canning. "We would advise any supporters of Mayor Kilpatrick not to donate to this fake Web site."
The site -- kwamekilpatrick2014.org -- [Now http://kwamekilpatrick2014.org/wordpress/ ] went online Saturday, two days after the mayor pleaded guilty to obstruction of justice charges resulting from his false testimony in last year's police whistle-blower scandal....
... The site exhorts visitors to "SUPPORT KWAME KILPATRICK 2014 FOR MAYOR OF DETROIT -- TOGETHER WE CAN BRING HIM BACK." It features a photo of the mayor being snuggled by his wife during a speech in which he proclaimed he'd make a comeback.
The site also contains a message with spelling and grammatical errors...
Don't donate, supporters told
By DAVID ASHENFELTER, JOE SWICKARD and MIKE WENDLAND
FREE PRESS STAFF WRITERS
September 7, 2008
A Web site purporting to raise money for Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick's $1-million restitution bill in the text messaging scandal is a hoax, the mayor's legal team said Sunday.
"It is not an authorized site by the mayor or anyone he's affiliated with," said mayoral spokesman James Canning. "We would advise any supporters of Mayor Kilpatrick not to donate to this fake Web site."
The site -- kwamekilpatrick2014.org -- [Now http://kwamekilpatrick2014.org/wordpress/ ] went online Saturday, two days after the mayor pleaded guilty to obstruction of justice charges resulting from his false testimony in last year's police whistle-blower scandal....
... The site exhorts visitors to "SUPPORT KWAME KILPATRICK 2014 FOR MAYOR OF DETROIT -- TOGETHER WE CAN BRING HIM BACK." It features a photo of the mayor being snuggled by his wife during a speech in which he proclaimed he'd make a comeback.
The site also contains a message with spelling and grammatical errors...
The year is nineteen-sixty-something, and after endless millennia of watery sleep, the stars are finally right. Old R'lyeh rises out of the Pacific, ready to cast its damned shadow over the primitive human world. The first to see its peaks: an alcoholic, paranoid, and frightened Jack Kerouac, who had been drinking off a nervous breakdown up in Big Sur. Now Jack must get back on the road to find Neal Cassady, the holy fool whose rambling letters hint of a world brought to its knees in worship of the Elder God Cthulhu. Together with pistol-packin' junkie William S. Burroughs, Jack and Neal make their way across the continent to face down the murderous Lovecraftian cult that has spread its darkness to the heart of the American Dream. But is Neal along for the ride to help save the world, or does he want to destroy it just so that he'll have an ending for his book?
![LVR9s.jpg [PIC] (JPEG Image, 374x499 pixels)](http://i.imgur.com/LVR9s.jpg%20%5BPIC%5D){kind=link}
... The scene: Hartsford Hall, in the nearby village of Little Bumpford. The Lady Felicia gaily exchanges banter with Lord Frost of Locksley-Charmes (whose lovely wife, the American lass known as Tiffany, Lady Frost, has been forbidden to ride a-horseback ever since the incident involving Eunice, Duchess of Crabbe, the mount known as 'Frisky Bottoms by Way of Tiddly Winks,' and a certain irreplaceable seventeenth century door with the original French glass). Young Penelope Windsor-Smythe frolics with the stable hands in her oh so innocent manner. And oneself? Why, one is indulging in the hot mulled wine served outside on this frigid morning, glad for the warmth. One has seven or eight hearty cups of the stuff, for thorough warming.
The horn sounds! Yoicks! And away! One masterfully leaps astride one's hunting mount. One's riding form is admired by many. Even among the gentry, few have seen such an erection on horseback. ...
The horn sounds! Yoicks! And away! One masterfully leaps astride one's hunting mount. One's riding form is admired by many. Even among the gentry, few have seen such an erection on horseback. ...