That Morthos Stare writes:

Yes, I know that rex sacrorum sounds a little bit like scrotum, but that notwithstanding...

Apathy Jack writes:

"What if the flamen was smarter than the pontifices?"
"I don't understand the question."
"The pontifices were in charge of the flamen, but what if one of the flamen was smarter than the pontifices? Did he still have to obey the religous orders of the pontifex?"
"Well, as I'm sure a number of you have already figured out, given that you're smarter than some of your teachers, and as you will all figure out when you enter the workforce and end up working for bosses or managers who you're smarter than: what happens when you work for someone you're smarter than is that they take credit for your ideas and you get yelled at a lot for making them look stupid."
"Is that a reference to you and the HOD of English?"
"Actually, no. I'm impressed - the first thing I say in five years that isn't a snide comment about my immediate superior, and you still pick one up. I've trained you well."

Lactiferous Breasts

Josh writes:

Damn -- quiet at the moment. How to break an awkard silence...

How about this: Nude Statue of Britney Spears Giving Birth on a Bearskin Rug is a Monument to the Pro-Life Movement Somehow

Natural aspects of Spears' pregnancy, like lactiferous breasts and protruding naval, compliment a posterior view that depicts widened hips for birthing and reveals the crowning of baby Sean's head.

The monument also acknowledges the pop-diva's pin-up past by showing Spears seductively posed on all fours atop a bearskin rug with back arched, pelvis thrust upward, as she clutches the bear's ears with 'water-retentive' hands.

Yes, that'll do nicely.

UPDATE: Even better...

Update!

Josh writes:

Gratutious Pop Culture Reference

Hear that noise? That's the sound of me whoring like the whoriest whore that ever whored. In Whoreville. In the Year of the Whore. Wearing... some sort of... I dunno, whore-hat? All in my quest to contract the veneral disease of your attention.

UPDATE: Update.

So, guess what phrase I haven't been able to get out of my head for all of today?

Apathy Jack writes:

"Did you know my sister's dropped out?"
"No! Why? Dammit! Why would she do this to me? I thought she liked me too much to do this to me.... Sigh... Alright, what's she going to do with herself now that she's left school?"
"She's going to fill New Zealand with babies!"
"What?!"
"I said I think shes's going to work for a while, then maybe think about doing a course."
"No you didn't. You said she's going to fill New Zealand with babies!"
"No I didn't."
"Yes you did. You said she was going to fill New Zealand with babies."
"Nooo."
"Well... Alright. Tell your sister to come and visit me so I can talk to her about this dropping out thing."
"Okay."
'Bye."
"Fill New Zealand with babies!"
"Gggnnhh!"

Apathy Jack writes:

This week's midget abuse, part the first:

"That's a good idea for a presentation. It's also exactly the same as your friend's. Think of your own."
"This is my own idea."
"I recognise your ideas as distinct from your friend's: They're shorter and they talk more."
"I thought of this one all by myself, and I... Hey, was that a 'short' joke?"
"Well, a 'short and verbose' joke, yes."
"Hey!"


This week's midget abuse, part the second:

"Right, now you've got to do part two of the activity."
"But it's hard."
"Yes, but sometimes we have to do the hard things. For example, not crushing midgets is hard, but every so often I have to do it on order to get some work out of them."
"Hey!"
"And part two of the activity is hard, so you have to do that to learn things. You understand about the crushing."

Apathy Jack writes:

"Here's your koala."
"You really brought me a koala toy back from Australia?"
"You asked for a koala toy. You should know me well enough by now to know that I'd get it for you."
"Right, next time you go over you can bring me back that car you owe me."
"I'm pretty sure we've talked about this..."

Don't be a Prick

Josh writes:

OK, I don't think I properly spelled this out before, so here goes: you are not a prick. At least, most of you would claim not to be. So -- and here's the subtle bit -- don't act like one.

The people at Kiwiblog currently vilifying "pondscum" paedophiles and clamouring for a bullet to the head for abusive parents are wrong to do so. Not because the objects of their vitriol don't "deserve" it -- not because of any facts about them -- but because that's not what civilised adults do. Any attempt to justify such behaviour on the grounds of "they're asking for it/they deserve it/an older boy made me do it" is at best childish and at worst quite disturbingly psychopathic, going be some of the comments in the linked posts.

I'll say again: The way you act towards people has nothing to do with them and everything to do with you and how you choose to act. So you don't abuse murderers and serial rapists in jail because abusing people in your care is what the fuckers do. You don't forcibly sterilise abusive parents because forced sterilisation is, quite famously, what the fuckers do. And you pay up when you're found guilty of not treating convicted criminals like you're supposed to because to do otherwise is what the fuckers do. No excuses.

Now, you're probably be thinking "easy to say, hippy -- you'd feel different if it was your child being abused/your mother being murdered in her bed/your puppy being kicked." And I might. But I'd be wrong.

Side Project

Josh writes:

"Hey, what are all those old books at the bottom of the bookshelf?"

"Oh, they're a bunch of old kid's annuals from, like, the 30s and 50s. I figure one day I'll use the colour plates to decorate a room or something."

"Indeed. Lemme see those for a minute?"

Moo hoo ha har...

Apathy Jack writes:

"Sir, I think you should date the History teacher."
"Why?"
"She's always telling us how insufferable her life is. You'd be perfect for each other."
"I never tell you freaks about my life. Sure, it's miserable, but I don't burden you with it. I tell you how much I hate all of you, not my life."
"And does that make you happy?"
"A little bit."
"Actually, as miserable as her life is, maybe you shouldn't go out with her - that might push her over the edge and she'd commit suicide..."

This week...

That Morthos Stare writes:

...I had my first bodyguard-escorted walk...

...And doped my boss up good and proper so I could go out drinking.

No, really.

Because, somewhere in the world, it is still St. Patrick's Day...

That Morthos Stare writes:

One of these is funnier than the other.

You decide.

St Patrick's Day

Sir Arthur Streeb-Greebling writes:

PART ONE:

Two Irishmen walk into a pet shop in Dingle. They head to the bird section and Gerry says to Paddy, "Dat's dem." The owner comes over and asks if he can help them. "Yeah, we'll take four of dem dere little budgies in dat cage up dere," says Gerry. The owner puts the budgies in a paper bag. Paddy and Gerry pay for the birds, leave the shop and get into Gerry's truck to drive to the top of the Connor Pass. At the Connor Pass, Gerry looks down at the 1000 foot drop and says, "Dis looks like a grand place." He takes two birds out of the bag, puts them on his shoulders and jumps off the cliff. Paddy watches as Gerry falls all the way to the bottom, killing himself stone dead.

Looking down at the remains of his best pal, Paddy shakes his head and says, "Fook dat. Dis budgie jumping is too fook'n dangerous for me!"

PART TWO:

Moment's later Seamus arrives up at Connor Pass. He's been to the pet shop too and walks up to the edge of the cliff carrying another paper bag in one hand and a shotgun in the other. "Hi, Paddy. Watch dis," Seamus says. He takes a parrot from the bag and throws himself over the Edge of the cliff. Paddy watches as half way down, Seamus takes the gun and shoots the parrot. Seamus continues to plummet down and down until he hits the bottom and breaks every bone in his body. Paddy shakes his head and says, "And I'm never trying dat parrotshooting either!"

PART THREE:

Paddy is just getting over the shock of losing two friends when Sean Og appears. He's also been to the pet shop and is carrying a paper bag out of which he pulls a chicken. Sean Og then hurls himself off the cliff and disappears down and down until he hits a rock and breaks his spine. Once more Paddy shakes his head - Fook that Lads, First der was Gerry with his budgie jumping, den Seamus parrot shooting and now Sean Og and his fook'n hengliding!"

IRISH GAS STATION

Taking a wee break from the golf course, Tiger Woods drives his new Mercedes into an Irish gas station.

An attendant greets him in typical Irish manner, unaware who the golf pro is... "Top o' the mornin to ya"

As Tiger gets out of the car, two tees fall out of his pocket.

"So what are those things, laddie?" asks the attendant.

"They're called tees," replies Tiger.

"And what would ya be usin 'em for, now?" inquires the Irishman.

"Well, they're for resting my balls on when I drive," replies Tiger.

"Aw, Jaysus, Mary an' Joseph!" exclaimes the Irish attendant.
"Those fellas at Mercedes think of everything...

Goffic Art. Oh, dear lord.

RSJS writes:

This week's theme is: Brazen self-aggrandisement. Because none of you bastards will do it for me:

Clicky here for the art-whoring

Come one, come all, make me famous.

Intar Wub is for Whining Like a Bitch

Josh writes:

Interesting comment from Jordan Carter on Span's valedictory post:

I think this medium as it is now is very largely suited to Opposition mentalities and politics. It is a place to vent.

Makes a bit of sense -- people go online to whinge, and when you're in Opposition, you've got more to whinge about. Which suggests that when National finally gets back in, the NZ blog scene will be dominated by lefties. Silver linings, eh?

But whinging is, well it's for whingers, isn't it? Let's not mince words (here at Brain Stab, the only thing we mince is kittens, so that Apathy Jack can inject their puréed remains into his bloodstream, thereby increasing his Unnatural Powers and cheating death for another day). Whingy, whiny, runny-nosed crybabies -- who'd want to be one of those?

And yet, plenty of folks here on the Intar Wubs get a bee in their bonnet, a bug in their ass and/or a bunch in their panties and before you know it they've worked themselves up into a lather, talking crazier than Apathy Jack with an armful of kitten juice. Why bother?

As I've mentioned to other people recently, my reason for writing online is to make people LOVE ME! LOVE ME, YOU FUCKS! WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME?!! Part of that is due to the fact that I honestly don't believe that anyone cares about my opinions. Abortion for instance -- that's been doing the rounds a bit lately, but what's to gain by me mouthing off about it? Especially since my views are mostly of the wishy-washy "I think abortion is bad, but I also think telling other people what they can and can't do with their bodies is bad" variety, and mostly influenced by how recently I've listened to Anika Moa's "In the Morning". God knows I don't care about what other people have to say.

That said, as a former Philosophy student I am interested in how they say it -- the arugments people use and whether they can express them without bitching like a twelve-year-old. As I've initmated before, the argumentative abilities of your average blogger are somewhat piss-poor. Rather than whinge, though, let me leave some constructive advice:

1. Look up straw man.
2. Look up ad hominem (paying particular attention to the circumstantial ad hominem).
3. Stop fucking doing it.

Stormtrooper Pajama Bottoms

That Morthos Stare writes:

Whether on the frontlines or relaxing back home on the Death Star every Imperial Stormtrooper should not be without these wonderful faux-satin pajama bottoms. Made from the finest spun-neocrylinian, these pajama bottoms really do put the 'Storm' in 'Trooper.' Available in all standard sizes (Medium, Large and Clone).

Apathy Jack writes:

So there I am a few days ago, talking to some Year 10s about various things, when the five foot tall blue belt decides to show me her trick of spinning her key chain dangerously close to me.
"Have I mentioned," I ask "that I am practically immortal, and therefore completely impervious to harm?"
There is a thud and a clink as the keys sharply connect with my arm. I don't flinch.
"Immortal." I re-iterate.
She moves off in defeat.
"I've been teaching at this school for five years: If that hasn't killed me, I doubt that you miniature humans have much of a chance."
She freezes, turns around, and storms back.
"Uh-oh," calls one of the boys from their perch. "You called her short. She hates that."
She stands there and shoots me a glare that, had I been lying about that whole "immortality" business, may have been sharp enough to kill me.
"Hey, I'm not saying that you're not necessarily dangerous. Look at our deputy head girl: Four foot tall, but could brutalise anyone on this school."
"Trying to climb out of the hole you've dug, Mister?" one of the boys asks.
"No, no, I'm not saying she's not miniature." I turn back to her. "You are very short. So very short."
"So you're digging deeper?" comes from the boys, as the girl makes a subtle move to attack stance.
"I ain't climbing or digging, I'm just saying it is what it is: Height has nothing to do with capacity. Short people are more than capable of being dangerous."
The girl's eye narrow in suspicion. "Was that an apology?"
"Well, more of an elucidation than an apology..."
A moment of thought, then her muscles unclench, she shrugs, and walks back to her friends.

There's no real punchline to this one, I just liking making fun of midgets. Also, how many stunted ninjas have have sliced you up with whirling key chains this week? (Actually, I tell an inaccuracy for the sake of a pithy line: The puncture marks in my arm aren't from her keys, but rather from the scissors she took to me with the following day, but that's a whole other story...)

Apathy Jack writes:

Student 1 "If I pass English this year, Mister's going to buy me a car."
Student 2 "Really? Sir's going to buy you a car?"
Me "Yeah hold on for a minute there..."
Student 1 "See, last year Mister told me that if I passed English he'd shout me McDonald's, which he did. So if I pass this year, he said he'd buy me a car."
Me "I'm pretty sure that last bit never actually happened."
Student 1 "Alright, but if we both pass this year, you have to shout us dinner at Valentine's."
Me "Okay."
Student 1 "And if we pass next year you have to take us to dinner at Sky City..."
Me "Sounds fair."
Student 1 "In the car you're buying me."
Me "See you're doing it again..."

The Third Job I Should be Doing: Musician

Sir Arthur Streeb-Greebling writes:

Takapuna, being a hole, is not a locale I make much of an effort to visit. If you're wondering why I don't like it, it's because there is nothing there save an average mall where Shore kids go to hang out and preen. But anyways, I was taken back to Takapuna in late January to get some jandals and hated every second of it, but there was a time when I went there every week - willingly even.

Like most children, I spent my time joining various activities and giving them up some time later after I had expended a good amount of my parent's resources on them. Speech and Drama lessons, gymnastics, and during my late single-digit years the piano accordion. You can all shut the fuck up, because I wanted to start on the guitar but was too small to reach around the fretboard and the piano accordion is fairly good substitute since it trains one to use both hands like a guitar does. I gave up the piano accordian after my parents spent several hundred dollars purchasing one for me, and my extra-curricular activities lay bare until the end of high school, when I wondered again about taking up the guitar.

I went to Takapuna from Devonport, and coming from the south the first guitar store I encountered was "Mainly Guitars". It was on the first floor of (I think) the first non-residential establishment on one's right - just opposite a car yard. The owner was a nice bloke called Dave, and seing as he offered lessons as well as guitars I signed up for lessons and bought the most inappropriate guitar for a beginner just because I thought it looked cool. It was a Yamaha with sharp edges and a floating bridge. Witha 20 watt amp to go with it.

The problem was the floating bridge. When you string and tune a guitar, you thread the strings through the bridge, up the fretboard, and through the machine heads which you turn to tune each string. As Wikipedia explains..."On both electric and acoustic guitars, the bridge holds the strings in place. From there, the variations are astounding. There may be some mechanism for raising or lowering the bridge to adjust the distance between the strings and the fretboard (action), and/or fine-tuning the intonation of the instrument. Some are springloaded and feature a "whammy bar", a removable arm which allows the player to modulate the pitch moving the bridge up and down." To help, here's a picture of a guitar with a floating bridge and "whammy bar".



The important part, is that a floating bridge is impossible to tune. Any tightening or loosening you make to one string affects all the other strings. You tune one string, and the bridge is lifted up a bit as the string is tightened and tuned. Then you tune a second string, and the bridge as raised a little bit more as the second string is tightened - putting the first string slightly out of tune, and so on for each string. With six strings, reaching a point where everything is as it should be is a pain in the arse.

What strikes me now, looking back at the three or so years I learnt there, was how that little shop concentrated a disproportionate amount of musical talent. My first guitar teacher was Nigel. He was very proficient, a metal fan which suited me down to the ground. We went over the usual beginners chords and put them together in the form of "Polly" by Nirvana - good slow simple song for your first day. The first proper song was "The God That Failed" by Metallica. He didn't think much of the Smashing Pumpkins, so we just worked our way through Tool's catalogue. Nigel eventually left to go across the road to the Rock Shop. He was also in a band - Subtract - who were must-see's in the late 90's.

With Nigel gone, my next teacher was young Andy. His musical tastes were kindred to my own, more grunge than metal - Faith No More, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots etc. He came from a very musical family, and his ability to listen to something on the CD and work out how to play it was uncanny. Interestingly enough he quite liked the chord changes and such of "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, said that it was the sort of thing he might write. He did get to do a bit of composing of his own in the band he joined "Zed".

There was one other guy there, who I never had lessons with - maybe one or two if Nigel or Andy were away - but is worth a mention. Evan. I remember Evan talking about the band he was starting up, to be called "Day One", and how their first album was to be a collection of songs about suicide. Day One weren't too shabby, but his next project - Concord Dawn - has really taken off.

I don't say all this in a name-dropping sense, more as an example that one comes across from time to time of a small area or establishment having within it more talent than you would expect. The place is gone now. And that's the third job I could be doing, musician.

So, what's happening in the world today?

Josh writes:

I commented below that this blog's subtitle has of late been taken from whatever random song lyrics jumped out at me recently. The same phenomenon occurs with news articles from time to time, too. For example:


Mussolini's granddaughter says: "Better to be a fascist than a faggot." What a nice lady.

Meanwhile in Nigeria, authorities stress that the upcoming solar eclipse is no cause for panic and rioting. OK, what's the rule with Third World countries? If I point out that no matter how bad things are in the West when it comes to fundamentalism and superstition encroaching on people's lives (think Intelligent Design, "Thank God for dead soldiers" and the currently skyrocketing value of shares in South Dakota coathanger manufacturers), it's nothing compared to the state of ignorance existing in some areas of Africa, does that make me a smug, unfeeling hypocrite, happily mocking the less fortunate while doing nothing to ease their plight? On the other hand, if I leave them alone on the grounds that they're a Third World country and shouldn't be held to the same standards as us, does that make me a smug, patronising hypocrite, treating adult human beings as though they were feeble-minded children? Best not to go there at all, probably. Oh.

Moving on, British serial killer attempts suicide by repeatedly trying to bite through arteries in his arms. There's a mental image. I'll be over here banging my face into a wall for a bit. 'Til next time...


Also, could the people arriving at our site searching for dogsex please stop -- you're starting to creep me out. The people searching for midgets are funny are welcome back any time.

The third job I should be doing: Colossal Insight

Apathy Jack writes:

Bollocks to it, I'm tired. Third job I should be doing you say? Well, I had a plan. I was going to recount one of other of the events of recent weeks, make it a crassly manipulative piece designed to tug at your heartstrings - someting about the kid who's been kicked out of home, or the one who lost a family member recently: something to make the job seem hard and novble and make me all martyry and the like. You know how I do. Then, I was going to follow it up with a pithy thing along the lines of "There is no other job for me" only all poetried up to sound flash.

But I can't be bothered. I went to the wrestling (sorry, I mean the wrestling) last week, and I'm off to see Cluch next week. Also, my computer is buggered, so I can't really sit down and compose anything of length, let alone merit. And you know, work has been too busy to write about at length. Almost ironic really, given that some of the stuff I've been up to of late is the sort of stuff that would make excellent blog fodder - You wouldn't believe a bunch of this stuff: it all sounds too convenient, like it's been scripted for that television show I always make my life out to be. Busy. Busy and tired.

Hell, the story from today would be a great one, but it works visually, not written down.

Sod it, go and read a book. Blogs give you cancer.

Me Name In Lights

That Morthos Stare writes:

Dentith, who like his colleague grew up in Devonport, is fascinated by the way the North Head story evolved from local folklore into conspiracy theory, becoming increasingly convoluted and threatening. Initially, it fixated on the location of the seaplanes and it was presumed they had been blocked up to keep them dry. When the military denied their existence, it became a full-blown conspiracy theory.

"Why were they hiding these planes? Two rotting seaplanes doesn't seem like a good reason to keep an entire complex of tunnels hidden from public view, does it? So the story gets an added layer, the discarded ammunition theory.

"It's almost as if the story had to become as big as the hill itself."

Yes, I know, shameless self-promotion.

The Third Job I Should Be Doing: Mechanic

That Morthos Stare writes:

As I'm the one who posed this silly question you'd expect that I would have some gripping answer such as 'World Fleshpot' or 'Garlic Greaser' and that I would come up with some marvellous story about just why this is third on the list. Instead I'm going to be rather boring and admit that third on my list is 'car mechanic.'

I've always wanted to be a mechanic. There is nothing more time consuming and fulfilling than taking something apart and then rebuilding it, preferably with fewer pieces. As a child (still a child) I would dismantle toys to rebuild them. I suspect that this is the reason why I've performed open heart surgery on my iBook twice. Opening it once was fun enough; opening it up the second time was even better. Like the proverbial cat and his box I need to know what lies inside. I imagine that being a mechanic would have been my fate had I not gained this improbable accent (bewildering to all who encounter me in either hemispheres) which, in turn, made me so utterly pretenious that the idea of getting grease on my hands now sends shivers of distaste all along my spine.

So, yes, mechanic. I'd probably work at the garage in Devonport and drink down at the Masonic most Friday and Saturday nights. My girlfriend would be a Shore Girl, my car... Well, I don't know, really. A Nissan something? As I didn't turn out to be a mechanic it doesn't really matter to me. I'm an academic first, a PA second and might well have been a mechanic third.

I suppose that the 'mechanic' part of my soul (not that I believe I have one, being a Materialist) ties into my academic interest in systems; how and why they work - why and how people 'use' them. Systems are, dare I say it, metaphorical engines. Academics work with inference engines; you input data into their respective theories and they produce correlated information as a result, some of which you hope to be novel and useful. Both mechanics and academics are puzzle solvers and I like puzzles.

Which is why job number three is 'car mechanic,' even though the person I have become isn't even vaguely interested in the things.

Just thought you should know.

The turd jog I should be drooling

RSJS writes:

Fuck? Oh, boyo’s getting ideas again. It’s all about themes for him. Oysters in lycra and themes. Theeeeeeeeemes. First the little hooligan pisses on our perfectly functional sexual escapades with themes: I mean, prisons, hospitals, harems, “Morthos She-wolf of the SS”, all good ideas, but the lisping sanitation-worker and the mutant crab fantasy? The heroic oven-cleaner drinker and his incontinent sidekick Stumbling Al? I still have burn marks on my oesophagus, and he still has photos of same. It just ruined what was until that palaver a good hearty male bondage exercise. And now he’s applying it to Brain Stab. I don’t trust ‘im, you just wait: I’m going to be waking up in a Taiwanese jail with the entirety of this fucking post tattooed in calligraphic script from my arsehole to my shoulderblades.


Heh, shoulder “blades”. I have so much back fat they ain’t blades, they’re clubs. But I digress…


And what really wrinkles my nutsac? The fact that he sends out cryptic “Send me your data, weaselly greasemonkey, you are teh late with making me joy!” emails without, y’know, helping a brother out and reminding me what the theme is on the off-chance I deleted every previous email marked “Brothers and sisters I have a theme…” and went back to the therapy. The expensive, expensive therapy. The rank little tweetle beetle.


…one hurried trawl through the deleted items…


“The third job I could be doing”. Ooh, er? In other words he’s got a good idea for a post and the rest of us can just suffer. Apparently I am going to suffer the pain and ignominy of having his glorious post etched into the pink skin of my back and bum.


Hang on, THAT’S the third job I could be doing: The first is God-emperor of everyone’s pants, the second was the heroic oven-cleaner (“Dave” I think he was called), and the third one could be back-up tape for Brain Stab with the wondrous words of the contributors lovingly, copperplatingly preserved under my skin. Yeah, a walking database of the piffle and wank these gutsacks of cheese splatter chunkily across your screen every time you scroll by. They’re firing cheddar-flavoured sperm at your monitor, and now that will be spread across my body.



Jesus that’s so FUCKING wrong.


Oh, and "pie".

The Third Job I Should Be Doing: Ted

Josh writes:

I guess if I wanted I could always go back to stuffed animals. I worked my way through University as a teddy bear taxidermist. They'd come in from the teddy farms already dead, and it'd be our job to cure them and stuff them. Gouging out their tiny sockets to put the glass eyes in was always the tricky bit. Well, that and dealing with the ones that weren't slaughtered properly.

The professionals just gas them (electrocution singes the fur too much) but some of the cowboy operations off them the old fashioned way. That's why a lot of them have so many seams: gotta cover up the stab wounds somehow. And the bullet holes -- don't get me started. Ever wonder why Paddington Bear wears such a big hat? Fucking amateurs.

Still, the pay was good and teddy offal does wonders for the garden.

Theme Week - The Third Job I Should Be Doing

That Morthos Stare writes:

We all have jobs. For some the job is their life whilst for others it is a paycheck generator. Whatever the case, be it corporate lawyer or assistant bagger, we have jobs.

That doesn't mean we have to like them. Indeed, it would be very odd of you not to have thought 'I wish I was doing X,' where X is another job entirely (one that probably pays better or really does have a causal Friday; or, in my case, a formal Thursday). Have, however, you thought about that 'other' other job you could be doing?

Or, maybe, by job you think we mean another task to add to your list? Sure, that sounds good? What's the third thing on it? Or maybe by job you mean... Wait; we don't have an age restriction on this page so I'm not going there. Let it suffice for me to say that the following sentence, had it been included, would have included the words 'minge,' 'cock-hungry,' 'rhinoceros' and 'mucus-membranes.' It wasn't going to be pretty.

The third job, presented by some of our, eer, finest minds. Some of us might not be open to comment. Probably something to do with their vaginas.

Damn, I thought we weren't mentioning those.

The Greatest Book in the World

Sir Arthur Streeb-Greebling writes:

It is (or should be) common knowledge that older books on factual subjects are the best for a chuckle, as we look back on how little knew or how wrong we were. Medical books are also worth their weight in comedy gold, and of course sex - new or old - has a constant and effortless appeal.

So what could provide a richer (purple hahaha) vein of humour than an encyclopedia of sex published in 1939. Yes, for your blogging pleasure I present to you "Scott's Encyclopedia of Sex: A practical Encyclopedia Arranged in Alphabetical Order, Explanatory of Everything Pertaining to Sexual Physiology, Psychology and Pathology" by George Ryley Scott F.Z.S., FPh.S.(Eng), F.R.A.I.



Much of the beauty of this book is visual, which necessitates much scanning and uploading on my part and so we must pace ourselves to a few pictures atime.

The first thing that strikes us is the warning below...



Fortunately, none of us have purchased the book so we can plough on ahead, but no further than the next page where we are introduced to the entirity of "Laurie's Sex Education Library"...



...with our Scott's Encyclopedia of Sex sitting proudly at the top of the list. I don't know what "The History of Corporal Punishment" is doing in a sex library, and "The Sterilisation of the Unfit", "The Common Sense of Nudism", and "Sensible Sunbathing" may be borderline. But one thing is for sure, why would not want to learn more about "Sexual Apathy and Coldness in Women" as elucidated by Walter M. Gallichan.

Stay tuned next week as we discover what happens when women lie down.

Because these things are based on facts...

That Morthos Stare writes:

A nod to both Douglas Adams and Iain Banks today with this, a photographic reference from the tourist trap that is Camden.



Truth; the haploid step-sister of Fiction

Simple Pleasures

Josh writes:

One Saturday a couple of weeks ago, at the height of summer, my girlfriend was out of the house for the day, so it seemed like an opportune time to sit down and watch the copy of Boa vs. Python* I'd been given for my birthday. The heat that afternoon meant that it was very much ice block weather, so I ambled off to the dairy for some pre-movie coolants: "Mmm... ice block. Actually, a drink to go with the movie could be nice. What'll it be? Coke? Mountain Dew? Ooh..."

Royal Crown Draft Cola.

I can say without a word of a lie that my heart leapt at the thought of blobbing out in front of a fan with herpetological hijinks on the box and the chocolatey flavour of a bit of Royal Crown to wash it down.

On the walk back home, I reflected on how lucky I was to be a man of simple pleasures -- a cool flat, a shitty B-movie, and soft drink from a glass bottle is, it turns out, all I need to be truly happy. Am I remarkable in this, or are the rest of you just as easy to please? What must life be like for those whose contentment is contingent on more lotfy goals, be they world peace, an end to disease or the formation of a socialist/libertarian/Islamic/Christian utopia? Shit, that's what.

Come over here guys -- get some Boa vs. Python down ya. You get to see Angel Boris' tits and everything.


* In which Giant Snake threatens middle Armerica. The goverment sets out to stop it, calling on the aid of the Giant Snake's natural enemy: Another Giant Snake. Best. Movie. Ever. And yet total shit as well -- the paradox of Modern Cinema.

Life Lessons

Apathy Jack writes:

If you've had a stressful few days, you're tired, and you've been hit with a general bout of discontent, then when you come home and put "These Things" by She Wants Revenge on repeat, you'd better make damn sure that you don't have any razor blades to hand.

Or that you're well stocked with them, I suppose, depending on your desired outcomes for the evening...