To pee, or not to pee: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous pissing,
Or to take a shower against a sea of urine,
And by opposing end the urge? To pee: to piss;
No more aching; and by micturating to say wee end
That ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To pee to piss;
To piddle: perchance to dream of a golden shower:
ay, there's the rub;
from here
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Divide and Conquer
I havent been writing much Ive been snared at work with a rather demanding computer system but Leg Iron in Underdogs write upwards has a beautiful post that I think that if you do nothing else today you must as a point of necessity read in its entirety.
Link here
Link here
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
One law for them...
A Patrol Supervisor for the police breaking the law at at red light by not stopping at the right place. If it were one of you or I we would face 3 points and a fine for overstepping the stop line
This guy will not have a moments thought until he sees his car plastered over the net.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Prophecy Fisking
Three times shall lovely sunny France Be led to play a bloody dance Before the people shall be free Three tyrant rulers shall she see.
Three rulers in succession be Each springs from different dynasty. Then when the fiercest strife is done England and France shall be as one.
The British olive shall next then twine In marriage with a german vine. Men walk beneath and over streams Fulfilled shall be their wondrous dreams.
The Channel Tunnel...., the European Union between Germany France and the Brits
For in those wondrous far off days The women shall adopt a craze To dress like men, and trousers wear And to cut off their locks of hair They'll ride astride with brazen brow As witches do on broomstick now.
Women on Motorbikes
And roaring monsters with man atop Does seem to eat the verdant crop
Combine harvesters....
And men shall fly as birds do now And give away the horse and plough.
aeroplanes, farm machinery
There'll be a sign for all to see Be sure that it will certain be. Then love shall die and marriage cease And nations wane as babes decrease
The low birth rate in Europe...
And wives shall fondle cats and dogs And men live much the same as hogs.
Rise of the single family unit...
In nineteen hundred and twenty six Build houses light of straw and sticks. For then shall mighty wars be planned And fire and sword shall sweep the land.
supposedly the 1st world war, remember though the calendar had been messed with in gregorian times.
When pictures seem alive with movements free When boats like fishes swim beneath the sea, When men like birds shall scour the sky Then half the world, deep drenched in blood shall die.
Submarines, aeroplanes, Half the world? Not yet...
For those who live the century through In fear and trembling this shall do. Flee to the mountains and the dens To bog and forest and wild fens.
One century later.
For storms will rage and oceans roar When Gabriel stands on sea and shore And as he blows his wondrous horn Old worlds die and new be born.
A fiery dragon will cross the sky Six times before this earth shall die Mankind will tremble and frightened be for the sixth heralds in this prophecy.
Spaceship? Comet?
For seven days and seven nights Man will watch this awesome sight. The tides will rise beyond their ken To bite away the shores and then The mountains will begin to roar And earthquakes split the plain to shore.
Tides will be affected
And flooding waters, rushing in Will flood the lands with such a din That mankind cowers in muddy fen And snarls about his fellow men.
He bares his teeth and fights and kills And secrets food in secret hills And ugly in his fear, he lies To kill marauders, thieves and spies.
Man flees in terror from the floods And kills, and rapes and lies in blood And spilling blood by mankinds hands Will stain and bitter many lands
And when the dragon's tail is gone, Man forgets, and smiles, and carries on To apply himself - too late, too late For mankind has earned deserved fate.
His masked smile - his false grandeur, Will serve the Gods their anger stir. And they will send the Dragon back To light the sky - his tail will crack Upon the earth and rend the earth And man shall flee, King, Lord, and serf.
But slowly they are routed out To seek diminishing water spout And men will die of thirst before The oceans rise to mount the shore.
And lands will crack and rend anew You think it strange. It will come true.
And in some far off distant land Some men - oh such a tiny band Will have to leave their solid mount And span the earth, those few to count, Who survives this (unreadable) and then Begin the human race again.
But not on land already there But on ocean beds, stark, dry and bare Not every soul on Earth will die As the Dragons tail goes sweeping by.
Not every land on earth will sink But these will wallow in stench and stink Of rotting bodies of beast and man Of vegetation crisped on land.
But the land that rises from the sea Will be dry and clean and soft and free Of mankinds dirt and therefore be The source of man's new dynasty.
And those that live will ever fear The dragons tail for many year But time erases memory You think it strange. But it will be.
And before the race is built anew A silver serpent comes to view And spew out men of like unknown To mingle with the earth now grown Cold from its heat and these men can Enlighten the minds of future man.
To intermingle and show them how To live and love and thus endow The children with the second sight. A natural thing so that they might Grow graceful, humble and when they do The Golden Age will start anew.
The dragon's tail is but a sign For mankind's fall and man's decline. And before this prophecy is done I shall be burned at the stake, at one My body singed and my soul set free You think I utter blasphemy You're wrong. These things have come to me This prophecy will come to be.
Mother Shiptons prophecy
Three rulers in succession be Each springs from different dynasty. Then when the fiercest strife is done England and France shall be as one.
The British olive shall next then twine In marriage with a german vine. Men walk beneath and over streams Fulfilled shall be their wondrous dreams.
The Channel Tunnel...., the European Union between Germany France and the Brits
For in those wondrous far off days The women shall adopt a craze To dress like men, and trousers wear And to cut off their locks of hair They'll ride astride with brazen brow As witches do on broomstick now.
Women on Motorbikes
And roaring monsters with man atop Does seem to eat the verdant crop
Combine harvesters....
And men shall fly as birds do now And give away the horse and plough.
aeroplanes, farm machinery
There'll be a sign for all to see Be sure that it will certain be. Then love shall die and marriage cease And nations wane as babes decrease
The low birth rate in Europe...
And wives shall fondle cats and dogs And men live much the same as hogs.
Rise of the single family unit...
In nineteen hundred and twenty six Build houses light of straw and sticks. For then shall mighty wars be planned And fire and sword shall sweep the land.
supposedly the 1st world war, remember though the calendar had been messed with in gregorian times.
When pictures seem alive with movements free When boats like fishes swim beneath the sea, When men like birds shall scour the sky Then half the world, deep drenched in blood shall die.
Submarines, aeroplanes, Half the world? Not yet...
For those who live the century through In fear and trembling this shall do. Flee to the mountains and the dens To bog and forest and wild fens.
One century later.
For storms will rage and oceans roar When Gabriel stands on sea and shore And as he blows his wondrous horn Old worlds die and new be born.
A fiery dragon will cross the sky Six times before this earth shall die Mankind will tremble and frightened be for the sixth heralds in this prophecy.
Spaceship? Comet?
For seven days and seven nights Man will watch this awesome sight. The tides will rise beyond their ken To bite away the shores and then The mountains will begin to roar And earthquakes split the plain to shore.
Tides will be affected
And flooding waters, rushing in Will flood the lands with such a din That mankind cowers in muddy fen And snarls about his fellow men.
He bares his teeth and fights and kills And secrets food in secret hills And ugly in his fear, he lies To kill marauders, thieves and spies.
Man flees in terror from the floods And kills, and rapes and lies in blood And spilling blood by mankinds hands Will stain and bitter many lands
And when the dragon's tail is gone, Man forgets, and smiles, and carries on To apply himself - too late, too late For mankind has earned deserved fate.
His masked smile - his false grandeur, Will serve the Gods their anger stir. And they will send the Dragon back To light the sky - his tail will crack Upon the earth and rend the earth And man shall flee, King, Lord, and serf.
But slowly they are routed out To seek diminishing water spout And men will die of thirst before The oceans rise to mount the shore.
And lands will crack and rend anew You think it strange. It will come true.
And in some far off distant land Some men - oh such a tiny band Will have to leave their solid mount And span the earth, those few to count, Who survives this (unreadable) and then Begin the human race again.
But not on land already there But on ocean beds, stark, dry and bare Not every soul on Earth will die As the Dragons tail goes sweeping by.
Not every land on earth will sink But these will wallow in stench and stink Of rotting bodies of beast and man Of vegetation crisped on land.
But the land that rises from the sea Will be dry and clean and soft and free Of mankinds dirt and therefore be The source of man's new dynasty.
And those that live will ever fear The dragons tail for many year But time erases memory You think it strange. But it will be.
And before the race is built anew A silver serpent comes to view And spew out men of like unknown To mingle with the earth now grown Cold from its heat and these men can Enlighten the minds of future man.
To intermingle and show them how To live and love and thus endow The children with the second sight. A natural thing so that they might Grow graceful, humble and when they do The Golden Age will start anew.
The dragon's tail is but a sign For mankind's fall and man's decline. And before this prophecy is done I shall be burned at the stake, at one My body singed and my soul set free You think I utter blasphemy You're wrong. These things have come to me This prophecy will come to be.
Mother Shiptons prophecy
Monday, August 3, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The Silence of the Rands
From our guest blogger Juliette
Well, I concede defeat. In the space of a mere 75 pages, my hatred for the mind-blowingly cold, humourless, conceited and unlikeable Dagny Taggart has grown to truly alarming levels. In fact, it's actually come to exceed the contempt I have for for Polly Toynbee. And if you're a regular reader, you'll know that's really, really saying something.
In fact, the only way I'm ever going to get any pleasure out of this book is if she meets an untimely end at the hands of a particularly twisted serial killer.
As this seems somewhat unlikely - after all, she's supposed to be the god damn heroine - I've put the book aside in disgust. Well, at least it might come in handy for squashing spiders.
However, a girl can dream. So here's a brief outline of how I'd like the book to go from this point onwards...
THE SILENCE OF THE RANDS
by Juliette
'Who is John Galt?'
The words took Clarice Starling by surprise as she stepped into Crawford's office. The distinguished looking grey haired man was sitting behind his desk, apparently deep in thought, and had spoken almost offhandedly. She struggled to retain her composure and think on her feet. His good opinion meant a lot to her. Perhaps more than it should. And of course, she already knew the answer to his question. As did every trainee at the FBI.
'John Galt - it's the name we're giving to the new serial killer, sir. The one who's killed eight people in the last six months. Four men, four women. He cuts off their skin - that's his trademark. And we're still no closer to finding him.'
Crawford smiled slightly, as if impressed by her speed and alertness of mind.
'And what do the victims have in common?'
'They're all obnoxious, sir.' Clarice spoke with more confidence now, sure of her subject. 'He's targeting arrogant humourless rich assholes who think they're God because they've made a few quid ripping off gullible idiots. Already, he's claimed the lives of Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan, Mark Thatcher and Jeffrey Archer. And although we haven't found a body, Craig David was reported missing last week.'
'Very good,' Crawford said warmly. Something darkened in his eyes as he spoke again. 'Clarice - I have an assignment for you. I must warn you, it's dangerous and it's difficult. But it could help us catch this man. Have you heard of Hannibal Lecter?'
Something cold ran up the back of Clarice's neck.
'Hannibal the cannibal,' she said quietly.
Crawford nodded slightly.
'He's a psychopath. but he's a brilliant mind. And with our investigation having reached a dead end, this man is our only hope. Go to him, Clarice. For my sake. Ask him about John Galt.'
*
In The Sunnyvale Home for Homicidal Maniacs, a long echoing corridor extended before Clarice. An expressionless turnkey opened a heavily barred door to let her through.
'Don't get too close to any of the cells,' he warned her tersely. 'Stay in the middle.'
She nodded numbly. Then she began walking down the corridor, tiny and alone. Insane, twisted faces appeared at the bars on either side of her, as she passed the psychopaths' cells. Snatches of sentences drifted to reach her, hissed and gibbered from the lunatics' twisted mouths.
'Actually, I'm going to vote for Gordon Brown at the next election -'
'I think Katie Price came across really well in that ITV interview -'
'Well I think Noirin was really sweet, it's not her fault those weirdos all fancied her on Big Brother -'
A chill ran up her back, and she quickened her pace. The words implied a depth of insanity that made the ground open up before her feet. She desperately wanted to turn back, but forced herself to walk on, approaching the cell at the end. A man was standing in the middle of the cell with his back to her. He made no move of recognition, and she could not tell whether he had heard her footsteps approaching. She forced herself to speak confidently, and not to let her voice falter.
'Doctor Lecter?'
He turned slowly at the sound of her voice. His eyes were dark red and oddly reptilian.
'Who is John Galt?'
Clarice took a step back, unable to help herself.
'How did you know I was going to ask you that?'
'Crawford sent you, didn't he? Because you're still no closer to catching Mr John Galt. I gather that Craig David may be his newest victim. What a bad boy he is.'
'Doctor Lecter - help me,' Clarice burst out impulsively. 'Even as we speak, another rich obnoxious entitled asshole may be facing certain death. You understand John Galt, don't you? Who is he? Who is he, and why is he doing this?'
'First, tell me something in exchange, Clarice. Quid pro quo.'
She stared at him. The dark red eyes stared back at her. A moment of pure electricity passed between them. She felt herself blushing slightly. For a murderous cannibal nutjob, he was kind of cute.
'What - what do you want to know?'
His voice was soft, implacable. 'What did you dream of last night, Clarice?'
'It - it was - it was a bad dream I sometimes have. A memory from childhood.'
Silence pressed in around them for long seconds. Finally, she spoke again, as if hypnotised or drugged.
'When I was young, we lived on a farm. There was a family who lived next door to us. They were called the Rands. God, they were weirdos. Fanatically right wing Russian fruit-loop neocons, with the most fucked up ideas about life, sex and the universe you ever imagined. They were all butt ugly, and wore more gold jewellery than Mr T, and looked like they'd just stepped off a Nazi propaganda poster. Someone ought to have banned them under the Race Relations act.'
In her mind, Clarice was remembering those strange, hauntingly ugly faces. A family that could have turned Julie Burchill into a raving anti-semite within minutes of meeting them. Cold sweat had broken out on her forehead. Suddenly she was no longer in the Sunnyvale Home for Homicidal Maniacs. She was ten years old and walking alone across dark fields. Hearing the deafening, discordant sound of the unthinkable.
'One night, I was coming home from the barn when I heard voices coming from the Rands' house. They were screaming that their daughter Ayn had just got a fuck off six figure book deal despite being incapable of writing a realistic or sympathetic character if her life depended on it. It was the most terrible sound I ever heard in my life. And that's what I hear at night, Doctor Lecter. I hear thse Rands, screaming, near the barn...'
*
'Who is John Galt? It's the name police are giving to the serial killer who has been terrorising obnoxious rich assholes across America...'
Dagny Taggart sighed impatiently, turned off the news and put on a CD. She did so with the rare speed and deftness which characterised everything she did. Ever since she had been a small child, Dagny Taggart had had a rare ability to put on CDs. While other children fumbled and dropped the silvery discs, she had always been able to manipulate them with an effortless fluid dexterity that was almost godlike. Really, it was amazing how much better she was than everyone else. The song came on immediately.
'She's an American girl...'
She sang along to the music as she drove on through the night. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to sing harmoniously, and had done ever since she was a small child. It was little wonder she had so effortlessly ascended the ranks at her father's company, in a series of promotions that had absolutely nothing to do with nepotism and she'd sack anyone who said any different. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to sack anyone who said any different, and had done ever since she was a small child.
Parking outside her apartment block, she got out of her car. There was nobody in sight except a man on crutches, laboriously attempting to get a cumbersome piece of furniture into the back of a van. Dagny stepped towards him. She owed it to the small irrelevant people around her, to assist them in endeavours that came so hard to them and so effortlessly to her. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to get cumbersome pieces of furniture into the back of a van, and had done ever since she was a small child.
'Do you need any help, lesser mortal?'
'Thank you. That would be very kind.'
His voice was mumbling and strange. She barely noticed, intent as she was on getting the cumbersome bit of furniture into the back of the van, with the single minded determination which characterised everything she did. As she climbed into the back of the van to pull it in, she noticed the stranger stepping towards her. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to notice strangers stepping towards her, and had done ever since she was a small child.
'Are you an obnoxious rich asshole?'
She stared at him in confusion, the words only beginning to sink into her mind. Then, as the chloroform soaked pad pressed down over her face, the truth hit her with the power and speed of a sledgehammer.
Oh my God, Dagny Taggart thought starkly. It's John Galt.
Then there was nothing but a featureless field of grey.
(To be continued. Maybe. If anyone gives a fuck. Let's face it, if you've never read Atlas Shrugged AND Silence of the Lambs, this parody will mean cock all to you. So I'm basically speaking to about three people. Hope you're all having a good weekend anyway...)
J x
Editorial note
This was really funny when I read it last night, which is why I have to post it.
Well, I concede defeat. In the space of a mere 75 pages, my hatred for the mind-blowingly cold, humourless, conceited and unlikeable Dagny Taggart has grown to truly alarming levels. In fact, it's actually come to exceed the contempt I have for for Polly Toynbee. And if you're a regular reader, you'll know that's really, really saying something.
In fact, the only way I'm ever going to get any pleasure out of this book is if she meets an untimely end at the hands of a particularly twisted serial killer.
As this seems somewhat unlikely - after all, she's supposed to be the god damn heroine - I've put the book aside in disgust. Well, at least it might come in handy for squashing spiders.
However, a girl can dream. So here's a brief outline of how I'd like the book to go from this point onwards...
THE SILENCE OF THE RANDS
by Juliette
'Who is John Galt?'
The words took Clarice Starling by surprise as she stepped into Crawford's office. The distinguished looking grey haired man was sitting behind his desk, apparently deep in thought, and had spoken almost offhandedly. She struggled to retain her composure and think on her feet. His good opinion meant a lot to her. Perhaps more than it should. And of course, she already knew the answer to his question. As did every trainee at the FBI.
'John Galt - it's the name we're giving to the new serial killer, sir. The one who's killed eight people in the last six months. Four men, four women. He cuts off their skin - that's his trademark. And we're still no closer to finding him.'
Crawford smiled slightly, as if impressed by her speed and alertness of mind.
'And what do the victims have in common?'
'They're all obnoxious, sir.' Clarice spoke with more confidence now, sure of her subject. 'He's targeting arrogant humourless rich assholes who think they're God because they've made a few quid ripping off gullible idiots. Already, he's claimed the lives of Simon Cowell, Piers Morgan, Mark Thatcher and Jeffrey Archer. And although we haven't found a body, Craig David was reported missing last week.'
'Very good,' Crawford said warmly. Something darkened in his eyes as he spoke again. 'Clarice - I have an assignment for you. I must warn you, it's dangerous and it's difficult. But it could help us catch this man. Have you heard of Hannibal Lecter?'
Something cold ran up the back of Clarice's neck.
'Hannibal the cannibal,' she said quietly.
Crawford nodded slightly.
'He's a psychopath. but he's a brilliant mind. And with our investigation having reached a dead end, this man is our only hope. Go to him, Clarice. For my sake. Ask him about John Galt.'
*
In The Sunnyvale Home for Homicidal Maniacs, a long echoing corridor extended before Clarice. An expressionless turnkey opened a heavily barred door to let her through.
'Don't get too close to any of the cells,' he warned her tersely. 'Stay in the middle.'
She nodded numbly. Then she began walking down the corridor, tiny and alone. Insane, twisted faces appeared at the bars on either side of her, as she passed the psychopaths' cells. Snatches of sentences drifted to reach her, hissed and gibbered from the lunatics' twisted mouths.
'Actually, I'm going to vote for Gordon Brown at the next election -'
'I think Katie Price came across really well in that ITV interview -'
'Well I think Noirin was really sweet, it's not her fault those weirdos all fancied her on Big Brother -'
A chill ran up her back, and she quickened her pace. The words implied a depth of insanity that made the ground open up before her feet. She desperately wanted to turn back, but forced herself to walk on, approaching the cell at the end. A man was standing in the middle of the cell with his back to her. He made no move of recognition, and she could not tell whether he had heard her footsteps approaching. She forced herself to speak confidently, and not to let her voice falter.
'Doctor Lecter?'
He turned slowly at the sound of her voice. His eyes were dark red and oddly reptilian.
'Who is John Galt?'
Clarice took a step back, unable to help herself.
'How did you know I was going to ask you that?'
'Crawford sent you, didn't he? Because you're still no closer to catching Mr John Galt. I gather that Craig David may be his newest victim. What a bad boy he is.'
'Doctor Lecter - help me,' Clarice burst out impulsively. 'Even as we speak, another rich obnoxious entitled asshole may be facing certain death. You understand John Galt, don't you? Who is he? Who is he, and why is he doing this?'
'First, tell me something in exchange, Clarice. Quid pro quo.'
She stared at him. The dark red eyes stared back at her. A moment of pure electricity passed between them. She felt herself blushing slightly. For a murderous cannibal nutjob, he was kind of cute.
'What - what do you want to know?'
His voice was soft, implacable. 'What did you dream of last night, Clarice?'
'It - it was - it was a bad dream I sometimes have. A memory from childhood.'
Silence pressed in around them for long seconds. Finally, she spoke again, as if hypnotised or drugged.
'When I was young, we lived on a farm. There was a family who lived next door to us. They were called the Rands. God, they were weirdos. Fanatically right wing Russian fruit-loop neocons, with the most fucked up ideas about life, sex and the universe you ever imagined. They were all butt ugly, and wore more gold jewellery than Mr T, and looked like they'd just stepped off a Nazi propaganda poster. Someone ought to have banned them under the Race Relations act.'
In her mind, Clarice was remembering those strange, hauntingly ugly faces. A family that could have turned Julie Burchill into a raving anti-semite within minutes of meeting them. Cold sweat had broken out on her forehead. Suddenly she was no longer in the Sunnyvale Home for Homicidal Maniacs. She was ten years old and walking alone across dark fields. Hearing the deafening, discordant sound of the unthinkable.
'One night, I was coming home from the barn when I heard voices coming from the Rands' house. They were screaming that their daughter Ayn had just got a fuck off six figure book deal despite being incapable of writing a realistic or sympathetic character if her life depended on it. It was the most terrible sound I ever heard in my life. And that's what I hear at night, Doctor Lecter. I hear thse Rands, screaming, near the barn...'
*
'Who is John Galt? It's the name police are giving to the serial killer who has been terrorising obnoxious rich assholes across America...'
Dagny Taggart sighed impatiently, turned off the news and put on a CD. She did so with the rare speed and deftness which characterised everything she did. Ever since she had been a small child, Dagny Taggart had had a rare ability to put on CDs. While other children fumbled and dropped the silvery discs, she had always been able to manipulate them with an effortless fluid dexterity that was almost godlike. Really, it was amazing how much better she was than everyone else. The song came on immediately.
'She's an American girl...'
She sang along to the music as she drove on through the night. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to sing harmoniously, and had done ever since she was a small child. It was little wonder she had so effortlessly ascended the ranks at her father's company, in a series of promotions that had absolutely nothing to do with nepotism and she'd sack anyone who said any different. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to sack anyone who said any different, and had done ever since she was a small child.
Parking outside her apartment block, she got out of her car. There was nobody in sight except a man on crutches, laboriously attempting to get a cumbersome piece of furniture into the back of a van. Dagny stepped towards him. She owed it to the small irrelevant people around her, to assist them in endeavours that came so hard to them and so effortlessly to her. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to get cumbersome pieces of furniture into the back of a van, and had done ever since she was a small child.
'Do you need any help, lesser mortal?'
'Thank you. That would be very kind.'
His voice was mumbling and strange. She barely noticed, intent as she was on getting the cumbersome bit of furniture into the back of the van, with the single minded determination which characterised everything she did. As she climbed into the back of the van to pull it in, she noticed the stranger stepping towards her. Dagny Taggart had a rare ability to notice strangers stepping towards her, and had done ever since she was a small child.
'Are you an obnoxious rich asshole?'
She stared at him in confusion, the words only beginning to sink into her mind. Then, as the chloroform soaked pad pressed down over her face, the truth hit her with the power and speed of a sledgehammer.
Oh my God, Dagny Taggart thought starkly. It's John Galt.
Then there was nothing but a featureless field of grey.
(To be continued. Maybe. If anyone gives a fuck. Let's face it, if you've never read Atlas Shrugged AND Silence of the Lambs, this parody will mean cock all to you. So I'm basically speaking to about three people. Hope you're all having a good weekend anyway...)
J x
Editorial note
This was really funny when I read it last night, which is why I have to post it.
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