Ta much, dear Edosan
... 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
January 24, 2010
The worst thing about the smoking ban
Jeremy Clarkson
As we know, the ban on smoking in public places, and the misery of being forced to stand outside like a naughty dog every time you want a fag, has caused almost everyone to give up. This has had a profound knock-on effect on our social lives.
In the not too distant past, the notion of not being allowed to smoke in someone’s house would have been as alien as not being allowed to use the loo. Now, most people I know run a fresh-air policy, and those who do allow you to light up always make a huge song and dance about finding something that can be used as an ashtray. ...
... So, after the first glass of wine, you feel compelled to ask if it’s okay for you to light up, which requires as much courage as it does to ask a girl out. You are terrified that the answer will be no — not because you’ll have to go outside; you’re used to that — but because you’re English and you’ll have embarrassed your host. ...
... What party smokers don’t understand is that proper smokers don’t smoke for fun. It’s a drug. We need it. Running out of cigarettes is not an inconvenience; it’s a matter of life and death. Literally. Because in the same way that a heroin addict will mug an old lady for his next fix, a smoker will get up from a dinner table at midnight and, so pissed he can’t even walk, drive into the night to find a petrol station and more supplies. ...
The worst thing about the smoking ban
Jeremy Clarkson
As we know, the ban on smoking in public places, and the misery of being forced to stand outside like a naughty dog every time you want a fag, has caused almost everyone to give up. This has had a profound knock-on effect on our social lives.
In the not too distant past, the notion of not being allowed to smoke in someone’s house would have been as alien as not being allowed to use the loo. Now, most people I know run a fresh-air policy, and those who do allow you to light up always make a huge song and dance about finding something that can be used as an ashtray. ...
... So, after the first glass of wine, you feel compelled to ask if it’s okay for you to light up, which requires as much courage as it does to ask a girl out. You are terrified that the answer will be no — not because you’ll have to go outside; you’re used to that — but because you’re English and you’ll have embarrassed your host. ...
... What party smokers don’t understand is that proper smokers don’t smoke for fun. It’s a drug. We need it. Running out of cigarettes is not an inconvenience; it’s a matter of life and death. Literally. Because in the same way that a heroin addict will mug an old lady for his next fix, a smoker will get up from a dinner table at midnight and, so pissed he can’t even walk, drive into the night to find a petrol station and more supplies. ...
... 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 one thing I knew [about Dubai] was that everything I heard about it sounded impossible. It was a modern dreamland. A concrete hallucination. A sarcastic version of Las Vegas. Dubai's skyline was dotted with gigantic whimsical behemoths. There were six-star hotels shaped like sails or shoes or starfish. Skyscrapers so tall the moon had to steer its way around them. It had immense off-shore developments: man-made archipelagos that resembled levels from Super Mario Sunshine. One was in the shape of a spreading palm tree. Another consisted of artificial islands representing every country in the world in miniature. As if that wasn't enough, a proposed future development called The Universe would depict the entire solar system.
When I first read about all this stuff, I felt a bit uneasy. None of it sounded real or even vaguely sustainable. I'd been to Las Vegas a few times and seen crazy developments come and go. The first time I visited, the hot new attractions were the Luxor, an immense onyx pyramid, and Treasure Island, a pirate fantasy world replete with lifesize galleons bobbing outside it. Roughly halfway between the pair of them, a replica New York was under construction. By my next visit, the novelty value of both the Luxor and Treasure Island had long since palled, and they now seemed less exotic than Chessington World of Adventures. Meanwhile, unreal New York had been joined by unreal Paris and unreal Venice.
But even at their most huge and demented, none of these insane monuments looked as huge and demented as the projects being announced in Dubai. Yet the novelties, while larger, were wearing thin even more quickly. Dubai's The World archipelago hadn't even opened when the same developers announced The Universe, thereby making The World sound like a rather diminished prototype before anyone had moved in.
In Las Vegas the grimy engine that paid for each new chunk of mega-casino was there in plain sight at street level: woozy drunks thumbing coins into slots 24 hours a day. Hundreds of thousands of them, slumped semi-conscious in rows like dozing cattle hooked up to milking machines. Ching ching ching, slurp slurp slurp. It was like watching a gigantic crystal spider increasing in size as it coldly sapped the husks of its victims. Ugly, but at least it made sense.
Where were the coin slots in Dubai? I had no idea. I just gawped at the photographs and was secretly impressed by the cleverness of the people who'd managed to generate so much money they could safely take leave of their senses and construct 300ft buttplug skyscrapers and artificial floating cities shaped like doodles scribbled in the margins of sanity. To my dumb, uncomprehending eyes it looked like a collection of impossible follies. But what did I know? Clearly the people actually paying for all this stuff knew precisely what they were doing. ...
I love you, Charlie.
I saw a tv show about Dubai a number of years ago and wanted to puke. I kept staring at the screen instead of changing channel, simultaneously nauseous and fascinated - like a hypnotized, rubbernecking car-crash passerby.
[Tangent:
A British woman shopping in Suthun Coliforniyah was delighted with the term "rubberneck" when I used it to describe the nearby idiot car-crash passersby, who'd naturally blocked traffic more than the accident. She said she'd never heard a Yank use it in context before, and she loved it. She mimed holding a steering wheel and sharply turning her head, moronically gawking open-mouthed while driving past and laughed.
Not quite all Yankistanisms suck.]
When I first read about all this stuff, I felt a bit uneasy. None of it sounded real or even vaguely sustainable. I'd been to Las Vegas a few times and seen crazy developments come and go. The first time I visited, the hot new attractions were the Luxor, an immense onyx pyramid, and Treasure Island, a pirate fantasy world replete with lifesize galleons bobbing outside it. Roughly halfway between the pair of them, a replica New York was under construction. By my next visit, the novelty value of both the Luxor and Treasure Island had long since palled, and they now seemed less exotic than Chessington World of Adventures. Meanwhile, unreal New York had been joined by unreal Paris and unreal Venice.
But even at their most huge and demented, none of these insane monuments looked as huge and demented as the projects being announced in Dubai. Yet the novelties, while larger, were wearing thin even more quickly. Dubai's The World archipelago hadn't even opened when the same developers announced The Universe, thereby making The World sound like a rather diminished prototype before anyone had moved in.
In Las Vegas the grimy engine that paid for each new chunk of mega-casino was there in plain sight at street level: woozy drunks thumbing coins into slots 24 hours a day. Hundreds of thousands of them, slumped semi-conscious in rows like dozing cattle hooked up to milking machines. Ching ching ching, slurp slurp slurp. It was like watching a gigantic crystal spider increasing in size as it coldly sapped the husks of its victims. Ugly, but at least it made sense.
Where were the coin slots in Dubai? I had no idea. I just gawped at the photographs and was secretly impressed by the cleverness of the people who'd managed to generate so much money they could safely take leave of their senses and construct 300ft buttplug skyscrapers and artificial floating cities shaped like doodles scribbled in the margins of sanity. To my dumb, uncomprehending eyes it looked like a collection of impossible follies. But what did I know? Clearly the people actually paying for all this stuff knew precisely what they were doing. ...
I love you, Charlie.
I saw a tv show about Dubai a number of years ago and wanted to puke. I kept staring at the screen instead of changing channel, simultaneously nauseous and fascinated - like a hypnotized, rubbernecking car-crash passerby.
[Tangent:
A British woman shopping in Suthun Coliforniyah was delighted with the term "rubberneck" when I used it to describe the nearby idiot car-crash passersby, who'd naturally blocked traffic more than the accident. She said she'd never heard a Yank use it in context before, and she loved it. She mimed holding a steering wheel and sharply turning her head, moronically gawking open-mouthed while driving past and laughed.
Not quite all Yankistanisms suck.]
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. ...
October 4, 2009
Help, quick – I’ve unscrewed the top on a ticking bomb
Jeremy Clarkson
... I like a hot sauce. My bloody marys are known to cure squints. And at an Indian restaurant I will often order a vindaloo, sometimes without the involvement of a wager. So when I accidentally found that bottle of Insanity, I poured maybe half a teaspoonful onto my paella. And tucked in.
Burns victims often say that when they are actually on fire, there is no pain. It has something to do with the body pumping out adrenaline in such vast quantities that the nerve endings stop working. Well, it wasn’t like that for me.
The pain started out mildly, but I knew from past experience that this would build to a delightful fiery sensation. I was even looking forward to it. But the moment soon passed. In a matter of seconds I was in agony. After maybe a minute I was frightened that I might die. After five I was frightened that I might not.
The searing fire had surged throughout my head. My eyes were streaming. Molten lava was flooding out of my nose. My mouth was a shattered ruin. Even my hair hurt.
And all the time, I was thinking: “If it’s doing this to my head, what in the name of all that's holy is it doing to my innards?” I felt certain that at any moment my stomach would open and everything — my intestines, my liver, my heart, even — would simply splosh onto the floor. This is not an exaggeration. I really did think I was dissolving from the inside out.
Trying to keep calm, I raced, screaming, for the fridge and ate handfuls of crushed ice. This made everything worse. So, dimly remembering that Indians use bread when they've overdone the chillies, I cut a slice, threw it away and ate what remained of the very expensive Daylesford loaf, like a dog. ...
Well, it's hot stuff, yeah
An' it's everywhere I go!
- Memphis Minnie
Help, quick – I’ve unscrewed the top on a ticking bomb
Jeremy Clarkson
... I like a hot sauce. My bloody marys are known to cure squints. And at an Indian restaurant I will often order a vindaloo, sometimes without the involvement of a wager. So when I accidentally found that bottle of Insanity, I poured maybe half a teaspoonful onto my paella. And tucked in.
Burns victims often say that when they are actually on fire, there is no pain. It has something to do with the body pumping out adrenaline in such vast quantities that the nerve endings stop working. Well, it wasn’t like that for me.
The pain started out mildly, but I knew from past experience that this would build to a delightful fiery sensation. I was even looking forward to it. But the moment soon passed. In a matter of seconds I was in agony. After maybe a minute I was frightened that I might die. After five I was frightened that I might not.
The searing fire had surged throughout my head. My eyes were streaming. Molten lava was flooding out of my nose. My mouth was a shattered ruin. Even my hair hurt.
And all the time, I was thinking: “If it’s doing this to my head, what in the name of all that's holy is it doing to my innards?” I felt certain that at any moment my stomach would open and everything — my intestines, my liver, my heart, even — would simply splosh onto the floor. This is not an exaggeration. I really did think I was dissolving from the inside out.
Trying to keep calm, I raced, screaming, for the fridge and ate handfuls of crushed ice. This made everything worse. So, dimly remembering that Indians use bread when they've overdone the chillies, I cut a slice, threw it away and ate what remained of the very expensive Daylesford loaf, like a dog. ...
Well, it's hot stuff, yeah
An' it's everywhere I go!
- Memphis Minnie
Jennifer Aniston movies, hateful horror films, cosmetic surgery – what the US should ban
In America there are worse things to outlaw than smoking
Hadley Freeman
Wednesday 23 September 2009
The chances one gets to mangle a Charles Dickens quote in discussing American local legislation are all too rare. This, happily, is one of them. Well, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times in this tale of two cities, states, coasts, even. The big news in New York City at the moment is that smoking may soon be banned in outdoor public spaces. Meanwhile, over in California, cannabis looks set to be legalised. As we Americans (and possibly Dickens) would say, "Wait, what?"
On the east coast, tell New Yorkers about the imminent ban, and they look stunned and sceptical, a reaction my colleague Alexander Chancellor seemed to share in his column last week. Meanwhile, over on the west coast, medical marijuana dispensaries are selling cannabis to anyone with a driver's licence and a doctor's letter citing a need such as, say, anxiety. Many are predicting that next year cannabis will be "taxed and regulated" in California.
It's tempting to see this disparity as illustrative of America's tendency towards wild extremes: in one state, there's pioneering liberalism, in another there's fist-thumping legislation. Tempting, but not quite right, as California has already slapped down a smoking ban in outdoor public spaces – and, in some cities, in private housing, so smokers can't even smoke at home. Quite how you would partake of medicinal cannabis if you live in an apartment block that has banned smoking is something I am too naïve to fathom.
But seeing as New York is in a banning state of mind, there are plenty of things the city's health commissioner, Dr Thomas A Farley, could outlaw in this city – heck, in this country - that affect one's quality of life far more than the very occasional smoker in Central Park. I'm not talking about the obvious stuff. The New York Times recently asked the public for suggestions of things to ban and a popular answer was "cellphone blabber", which was both predictable and wrong. This is because the paper asked New Yorkers and New Yorkers have no concept of how brilliant their "cellphone blabber" is. My favourite overheard conversation so far came from a young woman bellowing into her Nokia in the middle of Union Square, "Just because you're gay doesn't make you king of New York!" The city would be a poorer place without this.
No, I'm talking about the more insidious toxins that the country produces in abundance and everyone then inhales passively. In a public space, you can move away from the smoke. This stuff, however, is so ubiquitous it is absorbed by osmosis. ...
In America there are worse things to outlaw than smoking
Hadley Freeman
Wednesday 23 September 2009
The chances one gets to mangle a Charles Dickens quote in discussing American local legislation are all too rare. This, happily, is one of them. Well, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times in this tale of two cities, states, coasts, even. The big news in New York City at the moment is that smoking may soon be banned in outdoor public spaces. Meanwhile, over in California, cannabis looks set to be legalised. As we Americans (and possibly Dickens) would say, "Wait, what?"
On the east coast, tell New Yorkers about the imminent ban, and they look stunned and sceptical, a reaction my colleague Alexander Chancellor seemed to share in his column last week. Meanwhile, over on the west coast, medical marijuana dispensaries are selling cannabis to anyone with a driver's licence and a doctor's letter citing a need such as, say, anxiety. Many are predicting that next year cannabis will be "taxed and regulated" in California.
It's tempting to see this disparity as illustrative of America's tendency towards wild extremes: in one state, there's pioneering liberalism, in another there's fist-thumping legislation. Tempting, but not quite right, as California has already slapped down a smoking ban in outdoor public spaces – and, in some cities, in private housing, so smokers can't even smoke at home. Quite how you would partake of medicinal cannabis if you live in an apartment block that has banned smoking is something I am too naïve to fathom.
But seeing as New York is in a banning state of mind, there are plenty of things the city's health commissioner, Dr Thomas A Farley, could outlaw in this city – heck, in this country - that affect one's quality of life far more than the very occasional smoker in Central Park. I'm not talking about the obvious stuff. The New York Times recently asked the public for suggestions of things to ban and a popular answer was "cellphone blabber", which was both predictable and wrong. This is because the paper asked New Yorkers and New Yorkers have no concept of how brilliant their "cellphone blabber" is. My favourite overheard conversation so far came from a young woman bellowing into her Nokia in the middle of Union Square, "Just because you're gay doesn't make you king of New York!" The city would be a poorer place without this.
No, I'm talking about the more insidious toxins that the country produces in abundance and everyone then inhales passively. In a public space, you can move away from the smoke. This stuff, however, is so ubiquitous it is absorbed by osmosis. ...
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
Darwinists Strike Again With T-Rex Eating Ichthus Fish Eating Darwin Fish Emblem - The Holy Observer
Epic (Dar)win! from dear DontheFox
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. ...
Ta much, dear MSiegel
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.
Cleveland's main selling point: At Least We're Not Detroit.
Detroit's main selling point: At Least Our River Doesn't Catch Afire!
heh heh heh
I liked Cleveland, and I still do. :)
Detroit's main selling point: At Least Our River Doesn't Catch Afire!
heh heh heh
I liked Cleveland, and I still do. :)
Numbas two, four, seven and thirteen in this slideshow are also highly recommended.
The video is completely screwed, doubtless thanks to my 56k dial-up modem.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/8111984.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/8111984.stm
Quack! indeed, and ta much, dear MouthAlmighty
... Classic cars are all rubbish. My Mercedes Grosser is rubbish. The Ferrari 250 GTO is rubbish. Even a Lancia Stratos is rubbish. They are typewriters in a computerised world. So why would anyone choose to buy such a thing?
Simple. Anyone who has a classic car hates his wife.
Our friend in the Volvo P1800 is almost certainly a branch secretary of the owners’ club. He will have written to his old school magazine about the appointment and he will spend many hours at night trawling the internet for interesting Volvo titbits. This means he doesn’t have to sit anywhere near his wife of an evening.
When the club meets, he gets to go away for a whole weekend. With a bit of luck, he will break down on the way home and be forced to spend the night in a Travelodge. And that’s excellent too because it means he doesn’t have to sleep with her either.
Furthermore, by driving a 1972 mustard yellow car, he will be seen by other road users as someone a bit unusual. Perhaps someone who writes poetry for a living or is Kevin McCloud from Grand Designs. Consequently, women will give him their telephone numbers at the traffic lights. Or stop to help when he is sitting at the side of the road, exhausted from all the pushing, and looking a bit like Mr Darcy as a result.
Well that’s what he thinks. But, of course, being a classic car enthusiast, he will be wearing shoes like Cornish pasties and Rohan trousers and he will have trouble with his adenoids. Which means he won’t look like Mr Darcy. He’ll look like Man at Millets. And as a result no women will give him their numbers and soon he will stop typing “volvo” into his search engine at night and start typing “vulva” instead. ...
Simple. Anyone who has a classic car hates his wife.
Our friend in the Volvo P1800 is almost certainly a branch secretary of the owners’ club. He will have written to his old school magazine about the appointment and he will spend many hours at night trawling the internet for interesting Volvo titbits. This means he doesn’t have to sit anywhere near his wife of an evening.
When the club meets, he gets to go away for a whole weekend. With a bit of luck, he will break down on the way home and be forced to spend the night in a Travelodge. And that’s excellent too because it means he doesn’t have to sleep with her either.
Furthermore, by driving a 1972 mustard yellow car, he will be seen by other road users as someone a bit unusual. Perhaps someone who writes poetry for a living or is Kevin McCloud from Grand Designs. Consequently, women will give him their telephone numbers at the traffic lights. Or stop to help when he is sitting at the side of the road, exhausted from all the pushing, and looking a bit like Mr Darcy as a result.
Well that’s what he thinks. But, of course, being a classic car enthusiast, he will be wearing shoes like Cornish pasties and Rohan trousers and he will have trouble with his adenoids. Which means he won’t look like Mr Darcy. He’ll look like Man at Millets. And as a result no women will give him their numbers and soon he will stop typing “volvo” into his search engine at night and start typing “vulva” instead. ...
...One is famous on YouTube as a slightly bonkers Scot with tragic mental health issues and unruly hair, who ultimately loses and the other is a singer in a talent contest. ...
Being one quarter Highlander m'self, I am ever so grateful to dear MouthAlmighty
Being one quarter Highlander m'self, I am ever so grateful to 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.
I'm so sorry about your politicos' causing that dreadful mess, United (?) Kingdom.
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. ...
HUGE SWASTIKA FILLS THE SCREEN. PULL BACK TO REVEAL OVERLAYED MEL SMITH, GRIFF RHYS-JONES AND PAMELA STEPHENSON AS SKINHEADS. THEY SING:
ALL
They didn't understand him
Some people called him mad
But any friend of Hitler's
Can't have been all bad.
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
SMITH
He was popular and handsome
As Richard Burton
'Cause I seen him on the box once
With his black shirt on
And though I cannot claim to be
Any great authority
As far as I'm concerned
The sun shone out of his oratory
ALL
He could have been a great dictator,
Given half a chance
But they treated him like a traitor
So he went to live in France
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
STEPHENSON
And when they heard he was dead...
ALL
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
RHYS-JONES
...this is what the papers all said:
(AS THEY READ, THE FOLLOWING ARE CAPTIONED. THE ACTUAL NEWSPAPERS ARE ALSO ROSTRUMED IN THE BACKGROUND)
RHYS-JONES
"Genuinely eager to champion the unemployed and other underdogs... dynamic and handsome, popular... gifted and a natural leader"
CAPTION ADDS FOOTNOTE 'The Guardian'
STEPHENSON
"Brilliant man in the Commons... compassionate and humane... a man of genuine courage and inspiring leadership"
CAPTION ADDS FOOTNOTE '- The Daily Telegraph'
SMITH
"Thought to have been the most handsome and gifted British political leader of the twentieth century ...brilliant debater, gifted, lucid and compassionate..."
CAPTION ADDS FOOTNOTE ' - The Times'
Not The Nine O'Clock News
Series 3, Show 7 (08/12/80)
© 1980 BBC - EMI Music Ltd
ALL
They didn't understand him
Some people called him mad
But any friend of Hitler's
Can't have been all bad.
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
SMITH
He was popular and handsome
As Richard Burton
'Cause I seen him on the box once
With his black shirt on
And though I cannot claim to be
Any great authority
As far as I'm concerned
The sun shone out of his oratory
ALL
He could have been a great dictator,
Given half a chance
But they treated him like a traitor
So he went to live in France
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
STEPHENSON
And when they heard he was dead...
ALL
Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley
RHYS-JONES
...this is what the papers all said:
(AS THEY READ, THE FOLLOWING ARE CAPTIONED. THE ACTUAL NEWSPAPERS ARE ALSO ROSTRUMED IN THE BACKGROUND)
RHYS-JONES
"Genuinely eager to champion the unemployed and other underdogs... dynamic and handsome, popular... gifted and a natural leader"
CAPTION ADDS FOOTNOTE 'The Guardian'
STEPHENSON
"Brilliant man in the Commons... compassionate and humane... a man of genuine courage and inspiring leadership"
CAPTION ADDS FOOTNOTE '- The Daily Telegraph'
SMITH
"Thought to have been the most handsome and gifted British political leader of the twentieth century ...brilliant debater, gifted, lucid and compassionate..."
CAPTION ADDS FOOTNOTE ' - The Times'
Not The Nine O'Clock News
Series 3, Show 7 (08/12/80)
© 1980 BBC - EMI Music Ltd
We don't want madonna either. Antarctica can have it.
Ahnnnnnd *shlorp* haaaave yoooou been a baaaaaaaad little girl thisssssssssssss year?
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.
Nicked off dear Starwalker
The world will never be safe until Scrabble is banned
Board games do not bring a family closer together. They rip out its heart in a seething cauldron of rage
Jeremy Clarkson
January 11, 2009
News from the dusty bit at the back of the toy shop. In the past 12 months, sales of Trivial Pursuit have tripled, Monopoly is 13% up and Scrabble is 23 times more popular than it was in 2007.
Naturally, the sort of people who like long walks in the fresh air see this as an indicator that Britain is reverting to traditional family values and that instead of going out at night to sniff glue and stab a policeman, the nation’s children are all at home in pinafore dresses, whittling chess pieces round the fire with mum and dad. They see the resurgence of the board game as a good thing.
I’m not so sure, though. Take Monopoly as an example. To begin with it’s good fun but, like the banking and property system on which it is based, there is a flaw. It never ends. You go bankrupt so you borrow money from your mum who has loads. Then you go bankrupt again. So you borrow more money from the bank. And then, when there is no more money left in the box, you write out an IOU and keep on borrowing by which time it is Thursday, everyone is bankrupt and you have realised that unchecked capitalism doesn’t work whether it comes in a stock market or in a box. That’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not, there will be a “bad loser” around the table who will land on your hotel in Northumberland Avenue and in a hysterical rage will burst into tears and throw the board, his dog, your iron and all your dad’s houses into the fire.
In theory Scrabble is much better and yet it, too, is flawed. Well, it is for me because I always end up with seven vowels. So while my opponent is writing “underpass” across two triple word scores and claiming it’s a game of skill, I’m getting five for “eerie”. Again. And they are looking at me as though I might be a simpleton. ...
Whenever I've played scrabble, I wind up with nothing but Qs and Xs and no vowels. Were it really a game of skill, I would have been able to win instead of constantly passing. scrabble hates me, but it might hate me less if Jezza were my partner and we pooled our tiles. We'd get words like 'exequies' and 'exquisite' and 'quorum.'
Board games do not bring a family closer together. They rip out its heart in a seething cauldron of rage
Jeremy Clarkson
January 11, 2009
News from the dusty bit at the back of the toy shop. In the past 12 months, sales of Trivial Pursuit have tripled, Monopoly is 13% up and Scrabble is 23 times more popular than it was in 2007.
Naturally, the sort of people who like long walks in the fresh air see this as an indicator that Britain is reverting to traditional family values and that instead of going out at night to sniff glue and stab a policeman, the nation’s children are all at home in pinafore dresses, whittling chess pieces round the fire with mum and dad. They see the resurgence of the board game as a good thing.
I’m not so sure, though. Take Monopoly as an example. To begin with it’s good fun but, like the banking and property system on which it is based, there is a flaw. It never ends. You go bankrupt so you borrow money from your mum who has loads. Then you go bankrupt again. So you borrow more money from the bank. And then, when there is no more money left in the box, you write out an IOU and keep on borrowing by which time it is Thursday, everyone is bankrupt and you have realised that unchecked capitalism doesn’t work whether it comes in a stock market or in a box. That’s if you’re lucky. If you’re not, there will be a “bad loser” around the table who will land on your hotel in Northumberland Avenue and in a hysterical rage will burst into tears and throw the board, his dog, your iron and all your dad’s houses into the fire.
In theory Scrabble is much better and yet it, too, is flawed. Well, it is for me because I always end up with seven vowels. So while my opponent is writing “underpass” across two triple word scores and claiming it’s a game of skill, I’m getting five for “eerie”. Again. And they are looking at me as though I might be a simpleton. ...
Whenever I've played scrabble, I wind up with nothing but Qs and Xs and no vowels. Were it really a game of skill, I would have been able to win instead of constantly passing. scrabble hates me, but it might hate me less if Jezza were my partner and we pooled our tiles. We'd get words like 'exequies' and 'exquisite' and 'quorum.'
Mike Thompson - Detroit Free Press
12 January 2009
Go away, Palin!
Mike Thompson - Detroit Free Press
12 January 2009
