Compound This

I got a credit card bill in the mail today. Not technically a bill. I paid it off recently and they actually owe me for once. That's right, the credit card company owes me sixteen cents. Sixteen cents that could be earning me a return. Now I don't mind if they can't pay it back all at once, that's fine, we can work something out - but I've just realized they are overdue...that incurs an...oh let's see...$60 late payment fee and, why not, a $25 processing fee.

So they actually owe me $85.16...that's more like it. Now I won't tell them that until they make another payment, which won't be enough and bingo, another $85 plus interest on the first $85.16 PLUS interest on the original $0.16. Now we just compound the hell out of it, add the zero's and...there we have it. If I play it right they'll owe me $62,951.33 by October.

Coming Soon: Tank Commander Hanzi

Tank Commander Hanzi (promo)

Coming Soon to SkookumJoe

Sooky Joe

You see that? They spelled my name wrong. I've been out of work a week and it was looking grim so I signed up my non-existent baboons for a church picnic. I'd promised them "cuddly, playful baboons" and I didn't know what the hell I was going to do. Luckily I got a phone call tonight from this guy. He might have a job for me and I'm going to go see him next week. So fingers crossed I'll be able to cancel on the church gig.

I Warned You

I told you. I said if I quit work this blog would go to shit...all happy and shit. Well now it's happened.

Sunny morning, medicine man is coming out for a visit, my final pay hit the bank, new computer is pumping out mixed tunes (Bloc Party at the moment) and I've got the house torn apart for a fucking good clean. I might mow the back yard this afternoon, just to see it's still under there. Also the dogs have delicate behinds and don't like long grass tickling them while they poop...so when poop starts being deposited on the path, it's time to mow.

I've taken the remote control (1:10 scale!) tank from its cupboard and am charging the batteries. I have a wireless camera currently doing survelience work, that fits on the turret of the tank and we'll see what sort of video we can get later. Did I mention its an infrared camera? Course I did, just there. Shoots BB's too (the tank, not the camera) and if you put oil in it, the barrel smokes after firing - a bit like me! hahah. ha. ha.

Yeah. Too fucking happy. I better start looking for another job.

Skookum in the Talkies

Ok Skookum is now on UTube. This was the only video I had available to upload as a test. It is a skyway I built over my fish pond from a toy cable car and parts from an old VCR. It is solar powered (although is on battery in video) and runs up and down its string as long as the sun is out. The video also stars my fish Pepper and Long-Tailed Dan. Music by Jamiroquai.


Skyway

Have A Logo

Here is the logo for the Baboon Army. It took twenty minutes and seemed to be just exactly good enough. You can use the image any way you like but if, like me, you don't know HTML you can use some code kindly supplied by Exile to add the logo to your blog.

The Big Escape

...and off we went! Grampa was pulling on the steering sticks and I had my wool hat and we soon got up to speed. Grampa was so pleased to be out of the asylum and to see his old tricycle from the war that all he could do was call out "oooohh-eeee" as we whistled down the lanes and through the villages. All the shop-keeps came out to cheer us on and some of the school children threw clods of mud at us, all in good fun of course. "Ooooohh-eee", cried Grampa, "ooooohh-eee ooooohh-eee!"

On and on we went along the canals and through the vineyards until eventually the front wheel fell off the tricycle. "Ooohh-AHHH" cried Grampa but by then it was almost dark and I was sick of this shit. I got out my phone to call Judy. Crazy old bastard, I said, why couldn't he just pick me up in the Mazda?

Angle Parking

I used to think of myself as a liberal. I once had an opportunity to join the Canadian Legion where beer is about 40 cents per glass. Used to be you had to be ex military, the spouse of or guest of same, to enter. But they realized with this policy all the members were dying off, so they were offering 'fraternal' memberships in return for community work like coaching kids soccer, or tending bar down at the legion. Anyway I always liked the legion with it's cheap beer, crypt-like stillness. You could sit there all afternoon reading and drinking beer without anyone coming up saying "Reading huh?". So when I had the chance I thought I might join up until I read the application form in which I had to swear I'd never been a communist or anarchist, and that I wouldn't become one in future. At 24 I was pretty sure communism only worked on paper, but I wasn't at all sure about this anarchy stuff. I still wasn't sure if Kafka's anarchists were the same as The Sex Pistols anarchy. And neither of those married up with what they'd droned on about in 1st year political science. In short, I had no idea if I might become an anarchist since I wasn't sure what they were about...so I didn't get my cheap beer.

Today I could have signed that form in good conscience as I think all forms of political ideology are full of shit. They all pre-suppose the notion there is a 'right' way and a 'wrong' way...and that this can be mapped out ahead of time. An amazing amount of human endevour is concerned with groups of people trying to make other groups of people agree with them. Wars have been fought for thousands of years over difference in belief, but even in this modern western society where we supposedly have all that sorted out, every letter to every newspaper is from someone disagreeing with someone else. We have hundreds of politicians who's only purpose, it seems, is to disagree with one another.

There are an extraordinary number of people talking and flapping and finger waggling. In the news, in the media and down the corner shop. And I'm sick of you all. Me, I'm an adapter just passing through. I'm not interested in your views and causes, not whether Israel should back off nor whether they should put in angle parking on Little Street. I don't care if they put in a crosswalk at the school, I taught my kid to cross without it. If the school closes I'll teach her myself. If the meteor wipes out society, I guess we'll move.

Because when you realize we've (humans) been around for near a million years, and a million years is fuck all, this little thing we've got going here is but a moment in time. In another hundred million years we'll all be gone and the bees or dolphins will be learning to smelt bronze and nobody will care if they had angle parking on Little Street.

Homeland Security

Baboon Update

Back on the old machine tonight, upright and ready to fight.

There have been some requests for a Baboon Army progress report. With the new networked super-computer array I have the ability to capture TV and video images. I plan to watch science and nature shows until something comes on about baboons, or genetics or baboon-genetics or steam engines (I like steam engines). I’ll capture an image of a baboon to use for a control. Some of my experiments are coming out with fur, which is encouraging but I need something to compare them against…make sure I have the correct number of teeth and heads and stuff.

I am preparing a Mandate, which will be released soon. It is loosely based on a speech by Che Guevara where I changed the words Batista and Castro to Dickheads and Back-Stabbing Assholes. Hooray para los babuinos!

The 1^st Assignment:

Does anyone know enough HTML to add a logo to a blog? If so, I will issue a Baboon Army Logo for member blogs.

*I think there is a band in NY with the unfortunate name Baboon Army. Lets hope it implodes in a haze of heroin abuse and artistic difference. I mean that in a nice way.

T is for Toothbrush (that's good enough for me)

Sometimes things are good enough. Toilet paper, for example, should be soft sure...but scented? Why would I want paper that smells like lavender? Once it's been, ah, used am I supposed to have a sniff and think "wow, you can hardly smell the shit!" My toothbrush doesn't fit it's holder. The toothbrush holder was designed for the old style brush - straight plastic handle with bristles at one end and in the Dee-lux model, a little rubber nipple thing on the other end, purpose unknown. My current toothbrush is a multi-angled, rubber gripped, flexi-headed marvel. No more worry of the brush flying from my grip during vigorous cleaning operations and the variable pressure head allows for brushing in low gravity environments. That's handy, but it still doesn't fit the holder. Then there are the "women's personal hygiene products" - the longest running gimmick battle of then all. First the ads relied on clinical absorbency tests which escalated until some products were shown to be so super absorbent there was a danger of the product actually sucking away the user's bodily fluids completely, leaving only a dry husk in a cocktail dress, grasping the "stylish disposal pouch". Next they went to wings and flaps...followed by ailerons and landing gear...there was talk of an emergency eject mechanism incorporating explosive bolts and a tiny parachute. These days they are selling tampons in designer packets to "match your mood" and I believe a GPS system will be next.

I'm going to market a range of hip retro greenie/organic toilet gear. For toothbrush a sprig of juniper branch, for paper a Sears catalogue nailed to the wall, and for women’s products…

It would be smart to stop writing now.

Sometimes things are good enough.

My Own Little X-File

When I was about six we lived on the edge of a lake in a rented cabin. I swam in the summer and would watch the water-bombers glide in over the tree tops to skim the lake, scooping up thousands of gallons of water to dump on some forest fire too distant to know about. The planes are huge 4 engine Mars Martin ex- WWII ocean patrol planes. They would rumble in, too low to see for the trees and mountains, until suddenly they emerged overhead. Often the pilot would have to lift a wing to clear a tall tree before dropping in to start his run up the lake. We lived there for most of a year and at some point an older boy moved in two houses down.

I don't remember anything about him except once being in his house at night. Huge log home with vaulted ceilings and picture windows which looked over the lake by day and reflected the fire in their black panes at night. We were at his house, he was about 10, and I remember wondering how it was he could be alone in this place. He had a cold cooked ham on the counter and he sliced off peices for us and taught me to throw playing cards into a hat by flicking my wrist. I remember it to be a most amazing night, but not how I got to be there.

I have another memory of the same boy, a few years later in another town. Again I don't remember how we came to meet again or how I came to be in the forest with him. We walked up a stream with a lunch of things we had bought at the shop. We put bottles of soft drink in the stream to cool and he showed me a crayfish, which I had never seen before. When he reached in to pick up the crayfish a water snake swam out and bit his hand. I was worried this would be the end of my unusual adventure, but he shrugged it off and we spent the day exploring the woods and streams.

I can remember in great detail almost everything since I was three years old, every house I've lived in, teachers and school friends, conversations I've had... but I have no other memories of that boy except those two. I have no idea where he came from, what his name is, or where he went.

I have one other, much fainter memory from when I was about 3-4. Again in the woods, going through a hidden gap in the underbrush to emerge in a tiny grassy circle of sunlight, surrounded by dense forest. There was someone else there but I don't remember anything else.

I only just tonight put those three memories together and it's making me feel uneasy, though I don't know why. I wish I could remember what the boy said.

30 Seconds

Ok, thirty seconds and 3…2…1…

“This stunning three bedroom home is immmm-aculate inside and out. Features gallery kitchen with a cozy eating area, tiled foyer and wood heat in the living room. Downstairs features a large basement area eeeeasily converted into a play room or “hang-out space” for the teens.

Call Big Len TODAY!
’cause a Len-deal is a Good-deal…for you! "

How’s that?

17 seconds.

Shit. I can’t drag that out anymore, it’ll sound like Keifer Sutherland in Young Guns when they took peyote.

Who?

He talked reeeaaaallllll ssssslllllllloooooowwwww. Why is this a thirty second ad?

He paid to run a thirty but he hasn’t got much worth talking about, I guess.

Dickhead. I could say the catch-line twice, beginning and end - with a pause it would get me another 5-8 seconds but A: it’s not enough and B: that catch-line sucks and I feel like a whore saying it. What the fuck is a “Len-deal”? I mean, it’s just his name with the word deal attached, what’s that? And who made these notations – “emphasis” ?

Big Len. He said last time you didn’t emphasize “YOU” enough.

Well who else? Was he worried they’d think it meant a good deal for someone else but not necessarily them? Would people be at home wondering how to qualify for a Len-deal? Worried about getting the right sort of letter of introduction, perhaps calling in that favor from the mayor (“do we still have the negatives? In the 3rd drawer, dear”). How about I do it in 15, and you just run it twice in a row, tell him it’s a new marketing thing.

Can’t. Got me in shit last time, you ready? 30 seconds…

I know

and 3…2…1…

Size Matters

I am eating a 'fun size' Snickers bar. Fun size seems to mean smaller than usual, about 1/3 or so. Now I am finished eating my 'fun size' Snickers bar. Nope, I still feel the regular size Snickers bar is funner...at least funner to the point I'd still be eating some of it.

Still Cheaper Than Bottled Water

Somebody's going around Sydney with a tanker truck stealing fuel, 25,000 litres in one job. At about $1.40 / litre that's....that's...too bloody tempting, I'd say. Now a proper Aussie would park that truck out behind a pub and sell the lot in one night. He'd have his mate Davo at the pump while the missus took the cash and he wouldn't get caught because Aussies seem to get away with stuff like that. But surely the bikers, or the mob or the Mongolian quadrads will soon move in to take over the huge potential black-market in fuel. We don't really want a turf war where the 'product' is, um, explosive and shit. It occurred to me this must go on in other places too and a quick search brought up...

...nothing but stories from Australia. Sure there were others involving some drunk redneck driving off without paying, or women passing bad cheques to steal $30 worth of gasoline and a pack of smokes, but no real reports of large scale theft specifically aimed at stealing fuel to re-sell. So then I'm wondering is fuel just that much more expensive here (aprox $US3.97/ gallon), or is this nation decended from convicts just quicker to spot the opening? Or should we start storing fuel in tanks instead of the big petrol-trough down in the village square?

*Aussie unleaded is $1.40/litre

$AU1.40 = $US1.05

1 US gallon=3.785 litres

1.05x3.785= 3.974

The Brave New World Is Here, and there's bingo!

New Zealand, the Canada of Australasia, made the news this week with a disturbing incident of hit and run driving. A 70-something year old woman was run down twice and left for dead on the street with broken bones. Disturbing yes, but more so when we realize the driver was an 86 year old woman in one of those battery powered scooters they all get around in these days. I can picture it now, one of the new twin battery, 24 volt jobs I bet. Low centre of gravity, three speed transmission, large curb-climbing wheels, headlights, CD player, and the compulsory tooty-toot horn and orange whip-like plastic flag attached to the back. I bet they weigh 400 pounds plus driver, and being battery driven they are silent enough to get up a good run before the victim has a chance. The driver claims 'dementia', the courts don't want to touch it and boom, Nana's free to ride again. And in fact that's just what the driver in this case has said, she doesn't plan to let it get her down, she still needs to get out to the shops, life goes on, just like it did in the Blitz, dear...of course without the bombs.

This is how cyborgs happen. Soon these damn scooters will have built in oxygen generators, and heart jolters, and internet access. There'll be a race of mobile invalids, cybernetically connected into a borg-like hive mentality so having a stroke won't matter...your thinking is just processed somewhere else in the net and instructions sent back to the scooter. Heart give out? No matter, the scooter is filtering and pumping your blood. Got trouble with teenagers, always hanging around, hooked on the mp3, looking far too casual for your liking? In seconds the alert is relayed accross the neural network and hundreds of pensioners are activated to swarm in and assimilate on those kids' asses.

Actually that would be pretty cool. I'm really starting to hate sulky, wool-headed, non-ironic-joke-getting teenagers.

Touch My 8 Inch...monitor.

Welcome to the new comand centre. This post is being written entirely by touch screen (as seen above) because the snazzy wireless KB with built in trackball still has not arrived. So I am forced to peck at the onscreen KB with my little telescopic stylus, which is already annoying. But the new computer is now online which just by virtue of its newness should improve the quality of this blog by alomost three million percent, which would place it on par with those blogs for online casinos, and 'happy good fortune investment newses'.

This is giving me a headache, but I'm getting pretty fast at it. You-can-sort-of-tap-to-the-music-which-sort-of-helps. You can pretend you are playing that game of chicken where you tap the tip of a knife in between your fingers laid flat on the table, going faster and faster until yyou stab yourself. That double 'y' back there represents a stab to my index finger, second knuckle. Damn it, now I'm bleedding (ow!) bleeding.

Special Guest Appearance By Exile

Exile, who has some sort of industry (which may be pornography, or not) has alerted us via his fine blog about a growing movement on his part of the planet where women are refusing to shave until men do. (He claims the photo on left is him, though I think it looks like an unscrupulous Harry Potter impersonator)

Good for them. Fight the oppression sisters! Teach us all a lesson and let the shrubbery run wild. But you’ll have to talk that race of super-models all the magazines (not me) say you aspire to emulate in appearance, into going along with it. Models are famous for shouting out pre-written sentences like “fur is murder” (unless they model furs, then it’s “cotton is suicide”) so it may be hard to get them to cooperate.

But lesbians are rather popular these days and I imagine (through stereotyping) that some of the more butchy ones already don’t shave. And some lesbians are a little scary, at least the ones on Jerry Springer – although I’ve heard tales they were baited beforehand – so if you got them on board as muscle, you could intimidate the super-models into seeing things through fur-lined glasses.

But I don’t really care either way. I’m married and no longer have opinions about anything. It’s easier.

Over 5 Billion Sold!

This here’s the new moggy, Polly. Polly comes fully functional – breathes, eats, shits, cleans itself and can be allowed outdoors without fear it will get into a car with a stranger. She is also quite good at chasing bits of string. As with all models in the Mammal range, Polly can learn behavior, but does not come with advanced features like planning/forethought, tool-making, or extrapolation and abstract thought. Unfortunately these upgrades are not yet available in the Feline brand of Mammal.

For the above advanced features, see our Primate range of Mammals. The Human* version of the Primate also comes with vocal ability and includes Bitch ‘n Moan 2006, Lies and Deceit, and the popular War Starter: Eternity Edition. (can be either a baby-killing redneck or a filthy hippy commie protester).

*caution there are several know bugs in some models of Human brand Primates. If your Human shows signs of stupidity, this is normal. If however your human refuses to watch reality TV, it is not stupid enough and must be returned to the place of purchase for a free stupificationing.

He hangs back, looks for the opening...he scores!

A couple of posts ago I mentioned my outing to McDonalds. I’m thinking it may not have been my accent after all that resulted in my shitty service….

While I was there, there were three tills open. People were lined up in front of two registers, but there was only one guy waiting at the third. I wondered why some of the people from other lines hadn’t moved into this empty one, so I sort of hung back waiting to see if it was closed, or the guy was complaining or something. But no, he got his order, walked away and the attendant looked for her next customer. I took one step left and five steps forward and placed my order. I repeat, there was nobody else in this line...the net was open.

To me this is the McDonald’s etiquette. You may not get in front of someone already in line, but you are free to switch lines to exploit an opening at any time. Any of the people in front of me were free to do so and, being in front, would have had an advantage. But they were too slow and missed out. However they were no worse off than before as they had maintained their original position. But they all just stood there staring at this McDonalds attendant, who must have been hiding behind that man who just left, because they didn’t (apparently) know she was there.

They haven’t had Macca’s (as is called here) for relatively long so when someone like me with a lifetime’s experience in McD’s walks in, scans the situation, sees the opening and takes it…well they’re flabbergasted. How did he know? Is it voodoo magic? Is it cybernetic trickery? How did he KNOW? Then they chased me off with pitchforks and burning sticks screeching Heretic! Yankee! Tall man with… cheeseburgers! When all that happened I naturally assumed it was my accent that had set them off, but perhaps not eh?

Please tell me the McDonald’s Line Jumping Etiquette for your own country, or any others you’ve been to.

What To Do When Shit Happens

The Australian government recently realized an unacceptably high number of students were actually finishing high school and going on to university. It dawned on them, with an aging population already demanding every bloody cent, subsidy, and service it has coming – who was going to clean up the shit? Old people shit like crazy – my wife is a nurse in The Retirement Belt – she knows her shit, literally. Old people will shit while standing drinking a cup of tea, then just wander away, spreading the love. Apparently it is illegal to just hose them off in the yard so someone has to clean up the shit and the Shitter, making them the Shitee.

The government woke up in a cold sweat one night, this was because it had been using its left hand lately and felt vaguely un-faithful, but while it was awake it realized that soon there would be a national crisis. Once, years ago, the Government’s father (a proper dictator) made the Government crawl under the house and clear out a nest of dead rats that were starting to smell. When the Government tried to boycott, it’s father vetoed it’s ear and said “It’s a shitty job, but somebody has to do it.” The father then added “Not me.” because the Government still didn’t get it.

Well the government got it now, yes sir, ‘Not Me’. People were needed to do the Shitee jobs and lawyers and engineers and marketing sluts called Drew or Shyann just couldn’t be paid enough to care. What was needed were tradesmen, to build shit-houses and lay pipes to take shit away. Install pumps to push shit uphill or far out to sea, install hand rails to avoid slipping in shit until it could be cleaned by the journeyman shit wiper. And basically trained, cheap ‘medical assistants’ to wash and clean the Shitters. No need to know too much silly medical stuff - can you rub on lotion? Make tea? Wipe up lots of shit? You’re in! Sure heart attacks and strokes occur now and then, but not near as often as shit.

The shit is constant and, short of feeding them straw and burning the result for energy to help recoup costs, the only answer was to ask…no beg… kids to drop out of the smart-track subjects, quit school in year 10 and become apprentices.

At the same time, the same government is bringing in sweeping labor reforms which will strip the average blue-collar/office worker of most of the entitlements won over a hundred years. Sick kid, can’t come in? Fired. Can’t work overtime on short notice? Fired. You can be pressured into giving up your holidays to win the job. Soon they’ll make overtime rates optional, as they already look the other way. There’s talk of a minimum wage and 17 year old apprentices having to negotiate contracts of employment.

Seems to clean shit, first you must eat it.

What's This?

This was sent in by the European desk. I think it's Swedish. Don't know what it says but I hope I haven't pissed off the Swedes now. Crazy vodka-swilling metal-head bastards.

Parker Shows His Peter (or: Eye of The Spider)

West Coast

Cruising the cracked streets and numbered avenues of Surrey/Vancouver, laid out like Sim City on pause, in a lowered S-10, Suicidal Tendencies and Chili Peppers, summer wind so you could smell the ocean, not the sulfur mill. 1992 it was.

Randomly loaded Suicidal into the mp3 just now and that’s what came to mind. Thanks California for all those great neo-punk-surfskater-
metal-funk-hiphop fusion bands.

A Saturday of High Speed, Sprocket Holes and Descrimination In Fast Food

Went to a trade show down in Sydney today. It’s a four hour drive each way and I rode down with my young colleague in his Nissan Skyline. He stuck mainly to the speed limit but it still cost us $110 in fuel. This is the Skyline he bought on-line from a clearing house in Japan and had shipped to Australia. The radio tunes in some crazy Japanese bandwidth and is basically useless here and for some reason the CD player refuses to keep its disc down. There was also a cassette deck but who has cassettes to play? (for you younger readers, cassette tapes were tiny reel-to-reel tapes encased in plastic. They were placed in a machine which would un-spool the tape for you, so you could wind it back up with a pencil stuck through the sprocket hole – hehe I said “sprocket hole”).

So we had no music and spent the time doing funny impersonations of other people at work. He said I should do stand-up because I “notice stuff, and stuff. You know, funny stuff”. I thought that was nice. He’s a smart, funny kid and I also found out today he was a talented amateur boxer, which you’d never guess. Just shows you should never assume you’ve got somebody all worked out.

On one of the three fuel stops we went into a McDonald’s and once again my accent let me down. How hard is it to understand “two cheeseburgers, large fries please”? ‘Cause I had to say it three times. My friend got the perky blonde ‘team leader’ - all teeth and sunshine, while I got the deaf-slackjaw trainee who fair threw my 50 cents change at me. Bloody anti-Canadianism, is what it is! Worse still, sometimes they call me American!

Many Faces of Joe

Been quite a week. I’ve been compared to a syndicated columnist, an edgy young comedian, a strange English comedian and, oh yes, one of the “educated' people from 'developed countries' [who] can belt out racist views based on random reports.”

I’d like to thank everyone for the nice words, high praise for an ignorant bastard like me.

Critical Analysis of the Fun’s Fun Syndrome

Fun’s fun ‘till someone loses an eye: TRUE. It seems reasonable fun would stop after sudden eye loss. Not to say happy times wouldn’t return, but fun would definitely stop in the period just after retinal impalement. At least for the victim, other people may or may not continue having fun, depending if they now have to drive him/her to hospital.

Don’t swim for ½ hour after eating: Depends on what you eat, and whether you can swim.

Your face will freeze that way: FALSE. There is no empirical evidence to suggest this is true, however some people have it done surgically.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste: TRUE. Many can be easily controlled and made to perform important calculations.

Wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus: FALSE. Either way, they’re dirty now.

The early bird catches the worm: This implies the early worm gets eaten. So the advantage of being early is relative, like everything else.

Don’t talk to strangers: Was a hit for Rick Springfield in 1982.

Rick Springfield: Was not hit by a bus in 1982, although he should have been.

Jackals, Mortal Enemy of the Baboon

Couple in India this week have sacrificed a seven year old boy. Strangled him and sprinkled his blood around their house for fuck sake. They did this on the advice of, and with the help of, a faith healer. They came to this person with a problem, the healer diagnosed a bad case of evil spirits and said “Right. What we need to do is kidnap and strangle a little boy. Should be back by ten if we hurry.”

I say that with the utmost sarcasm, to highlight the fact this seemed reasonable to four people. What they have done is the most ugly, pathetic, ignorant, fucking selfish act I can ever recall. But of course you want to know what all the trouble was, right? You want to know why these people felt their situation was so grave that their only hope was to do this vile thing,,,what, exactly, was the fucking problem?

They wanted to be sure their five sons would marry. That’s it.

Fucking jackals. A fucking embarrassment to call human. They should be used for medical testing.

2600 Nautical Miles

Let’s say you’re in a lifeboat with someone. Twenty-six hundred nautical miles west of Chile, that’s a lonely sea. You’ve been tossed around for thirty-eight days, you’re sunburned and salt encrusted. You’ve gotten over the whole drinking-your-own-urine-is-yucky thing and now look forward to the next recycle, as you’ve come to call it. One time you traded, and now you are obsessed with speculating on the implications both medical and moral.

At first you joked around the other subject, gauging each other’s potential reaction like teenagers at the mall, but eventually that wore thin and you simply agreed the first to die would be eaten by the other. With this you suddenly both found peace, bobbing without hope or fear on a calm star-lit sea twenty-six hundred nautical miles west of Chile.

Imagine this is you. What I want to know is: Is it ok now, at this point in one’s existence, after sharing this hell together for thirty-eight days to emerge together into this moment of clarity and quiet light…Is it ok now to finally tell that fat fucker to pop that pimple he’s been cultivating on his forehead since 1987. I mean, Christ, look at that thing! I ain’t eating that shit.

Valued Customer

The missus, who is a nurse, reports one of the patients at her hospital tried to commit suicide by shoving a plastic bag down his throat. The poor man is dying from cancer. As suicide attempts are automatically moved to the psych-ward for observation and counseling, and I know her hospital recently closed its psych-ward, I asked if they had transferred the man to another hospital. No, she said, all they did was take the plastic bag away and increase the morphine.

If they won't transfer him, they may as well give him back his bag, but it’s a private hospital and I suppose they don’t want to lose a good customer either way.

Canada Day/Independence Day Combo Post

On July 1^st, seventeen hundred and something, Canada declared it’s independence from England. Canada knocked on Britain’s bedroom door one night and said “Um, we got a job up north eh, so we’ll be like leaving in the morning. Take ‘er easy and thanks for everything, eh.” Now, England loved Canada as much as all her other colonies (except that bastard Australia) but also realized Canada was a bit “special”. You know… special. Entirely too concerned with chasing beavers, thought England. For the pelts said Canada, but England suspected there was more going on. And the whole French thing. Why did the Canadians insist on keeping those filthy French as pets? They’d fenced off an area the size of Quebec to keep them in, but of course the French are clever and kept escaping and causing trouble. Some of them made it as far as Louisiana, but luckily a hurricane wiped them out before they could spread into Texas and upset the Spanish. No, its better to just let Canada go, thought England. Who knew? Maybe it was for the best, there was still darling little America after all.

England gazed out the kitchen window where little America was playing in the back hemisphere. She looked so cute out there, marching around waving that ridiculous flag she’d made…all bright colours and stars. “I’m a big girl now” she was singing as she marched around banging her drum and tootling her flute. “America”, called England “it’s time to come in, dear. Bring some tobacco and cotton with you, there’s a good girl.” America stopped marching and took on a petulant look. She mumbled something about taxation without representation (a phrase she’d heard on 60 Minutes) and began gathering up her things.

England sighed. America was a beautiful girl but was turning into rather a handful. Stubborn and given to flightiness, she wanted so much to grow up yet couldn’t seem to manage a few mangy settlements. England had never forgotten the time the Native Americans had had to bail out the first settlers. How embarrassing that had been. They were still snickering about it down at the Empire Club. America entered the kitchen and put down her load of tobacco and cotton and England said “Ammy, darling. Mummy has to go to South Africa on Saturday, the 4^th. There’s trouble with the bloody Dutch again. Now, I’m going to trust you by yourself but promise me you won’t do anything silly, no parties, ok?”

That night America began text-messaging all her friends “big pRty my hous jul 4. bring fireworks hotdogs”. This later became known as the SMS heard 'round the world.

A Photograph

Here is a photo sent in by Dez in Australia. Dez is short for Derek, as Daz is short for Daren and Baz is short for Barry. They can all be extended to Dezza, Dazza, and Bazza respectively depending on your level of familiarity. Hey, don't ask me, I just report this shit...and speaking of shit

Whether this is a real place or not, I'm amazed somebody didn't photo-shop one sooner.

Congratulations, it’s a PC.

Alas, this update emanates from the old computer as the new network hub has not yet arrived. The blue cable I braved the subterranean world to string lies forlorn, waiting for ends to be attached, the line tested and connection made through the gigabit hub. Apparently the little crimping tool used to attach the ends to a CAT 5 network cable is some special creation of the IT alchemists, a mystery never to be exposed to the not-fully-geeked. What I mean is, I’d hook the damn thing up myself but nobody will lend me their crimper…”Oh, yeah…well, um, I’m not supposed to let it leave the shop. Why don’t you bring the cable in and I’ll do it here?” Because that would be stupid. That’s why.

He mentioned they are worth $60. This means they are not wrought in Vulcan’s subterranean forge in exchange for the blood of virgins, but rather, may be purchased. I really don’t want to invest in a tool I’ll probably never use again, but I will have my gigabit network.

So while I sort that out I’m asking for names for the second computer. The old computer is called “skook2”. I’ll need to identify the new computer on the network and it’s current name “004588CG8” is a bit plain don’t you think? I’ve been calling it Dave.

What do you suggest…..?