the blog quebecois

Bwahahaha. The Chretienizer.

. . . a lazy nogoodnik no luck no truck no nothing Nanook & then one day Penelope I sat down & asked myself awright U terrible piece of trash how can U too nab nugget buckets chockablock fulla easy chopchop utilizing idiotproof DYNAMIC REAL ESTATE METHOD SYSTEM & meltaway unwanted pounds with UGLYFAT ZAPAWAY MACHINE & study the forbidden secrets of ANCIENT MOORISH VEGOCHOPPER, O just trust your nose & scent of rainbows as detailed in my subliminal cassette autobiography GOON? LOON? TYCOON! & so I marched right in there & that bank manager actually spit at me spit at me was that a nice thing to do I ask you that was not a nice thing to do if you ask me & very unprofessional on his part but behold this was all revealed in chapter seven of HOP SKIP JUMP TO ZILLIONAIRE VOODOO GODHOOD & so I returned to onceagain outline my proposals & realized immediate cashflow of $249 $745 $503 by compounding leverage & maximizing downturn & waving Smith & Wesson .38 around & spit at him spit at him & though stupid velvetrope maze somewhat complicated getaway have now refinanced debt to society & I believe I believe I know that the HARDLARD MUSCLEPAC TORTURACK folds up & stands in corner thus providing benefits of complete aerobic workout as you bang the vacuum cleaner against it for the next twenty years O call me crazy call me nuts call me now oneeighthundred & you are getting sleepy sleepy very sleepy I am getting sleepy sleepy very sleepy but as Marion will now demonstrate just a swig of ATOMIC TUMMY TONIC & look look lookit my Porsche Boxster rockstar vroomvroom & the red red blooms of Algeciras all perfume & my heart going like mad gonna park on the damn flowers if I wanna heres a grandstandhand forya officer I owe ya I own ya O hee O hie O ho hahah heres Hester Stanhope & old Captain Groves to tell you more Hester this seems like absolute garbage yes indeed it does seem like absolute garbage but thanks to the genius of Lipton G. Leobold who foresaw forsooth the need for SCIENTIFIC PERSONALITY UPGRADE you too can take off all your clothes & roll around in other people's money tired tired you are so sooo tired tired tired I am so sooo tired wait theres more its a three point plan 123 applause clapclap see it sparkle see it shine see if I can doze off now & if that jackboot jackass bossman thinks he can boss this boy around bossbossboss then quit I will quit spitspit O snap to it man streets paved with jewels strewn by fools why with gogetitiveness & vim & vigor & you will purchase MAGIMATIC MEMORY MODULE I will purchase MAGIMATIC MEMORY MODULE you will remember nothing nothing I remember nothing nothing all hail Colossus the king the world at your feet stomp stomp spitspitspit you are drifting drifting & speaking of which how would you like to ace that pesky entrance exam or would you rather squander your daze battling grimelords for control of the lucrative cigarette-butt trade yes you've tried to quit but you get those cravings hack ack ack just think of the savings & consider your brain a filing cabinet too much information bound to jam it & where is that Phillips file O I mean where is that Filipino screwdriver O I mean what was the name of that tastytasty bartenderstyle refreshment such as could be had in your finer type establishments where the doorman doesn't actually spit at you spit at you a simple three point plan 3 2 1 hurrah clap clap oneeighthundred succe$$ ce$$ e$$ $$ $ why do you dawdle slackjaw & staring when you could instead have your very own WONDERLIFE LOVECHARM INCANTATION yes & command your very own ROBOBUTLER to trill the plaintive peasant songs of unmapped Andalusia yes & thrill to the power of your very own MAGNETORAY WARTREMOVER franchise & then one day I stomped right in said quit quit I quit haha kachunk vroomvroom rompon onramp to fortune freeway to fun see my blinding white teeth chew up contracts crush through tile get outta my way & offa my pile nothing down nothing up nothing ever proved in court pending appeal free O free O free & draw the sword & jerk the cord & hit the ground running at zero zone alone foomp your parachute palace here at Alameda gardens just a hop skip jump to Duke street where the tip top guys oolala the bebop babes are standing by buy buhbye oneeighthundred now yes now uhhuh now 1 2 3 3 2 1 hut hut hut & yes I said yes I will Yes

ActionTrak â„¢ for 2003, assuming I can manage to get out of bed one of these days.

I am staining my deck. It is an old and honorable tradition. It is something a man does. In A Movable Feast, Hemingway writes of the shocking lack of decks in Paris, and of how the French compensate by staining poodles. This is not something a man does.

A man stains decks. Women could stain decks too, I suppose, but that would royally screw up this opening, wouldn't it?

First the deck must be prepared. The elements are not kind to paint, at least not the cheap stuff I buy. It is merry work, and as strips of pigment and chips of wood fly, I am wont to raise my voice in song, prompting random donations of footwear, most of which bounce harmlessly short.

My discerning eye soon identifies a problem. One of the deck boards is badly rotted and in need of replacement. This will be done today, for I am a man of action. I have grown heartsick looking at it decay this last decade.

Not much is known about the carpenter who originally built the deck, but he was obviously powerful, angry, and well armed with 4½" phosphorus-coated spikes. After an hour-long attack with prybar, hacksaw and hammer, the board finally gives up the ghost, as does the hammer's shaft, as does the skin on my knuckles. As befits a sensitive, if profane, New Age guy, I have hewn the replacement board myself, with an axe of obsidian, whilst on a woodland retreat, naked and unashamed. (Actually I found it in the garage, and I had all my clothes on, and I was plenty ashamed beneath them, you bet. Details, details.)

"Measure twice, cut once," goes the adage, and it is good advice, for the board fits snugly at one end and comes up an inch short at the other. You'll never see this common problem addressed on those yuppie carpentry shows on PBS. Now, most would attempt to conceal this minor flaw by dragging the chaise longue over on top of it. This, though, would presume that one's chaise longue does not already conceal an even more grievous deformity. In that case, saw off an inconspicuous part of the chaise longue, wedge it into the gap, and jump up and down on it until it seamlessly melds with the surface of the deck. Okay, so it's not the Sistine Chapel. Okay, so it sticks out a bit. You'd have to be an idiot to trip over it.

This is the nature of work. Work is good. Through work we define ourselves. Work is zzzzZZZZ interrupted by a bee. Have you ever seen one close up? I'll tell you, they're . . . inhuman. I am not afraid of bees. With a small shriek of welcome, I retreat to the kitchen to get a beer, pausing only to trip over my little construction project. Actually, after a few beers, bees look sort of friendly. As long as there's a double glazed window between us, I'm cool with bees. They buzz; I get buzzed. This is what the biologists call symbiosis.

I -- hic! -- wuv bees. If you want to see truly terrifying insects, go to Africa. I lived there for two years, mainly in my bedroom, in a comforting fog of Black Flag. I tried to buy a flyswatter there. The Africans had absolutely no idea what a flyswatter was. They thought it immensely amusing that anyone would waste time wasting the pests. I eventually did get a flyswatter, though it had to come all the way from Canada. Once I had it, I embarked upon an orgy of flyswatting such as that continent has never seen. But then one night I was on the veranda (obsolete colonial word, meaning, "deck"), resting from my morbid labours, when a goliath beetle whirred through the air -- these things fly -- executed a 2½ Double Axel, and came spinning to a halt at my feet, insolently waving at me with all of its 613 legs. A goliath beetle, I should explain, looks something like a vise-grip equipped cockroach, though much less cute. It's also about the size of your fist. A flyswatter is a poor weapon with which to engage it. An elephant rifle would be more appropriate. Gentle reader, avert your eyes, for the battle that followed was fierce: Whamwhamwhamwham whamwhamwham -- beer break! -- whamwhamwhamwham! And so on. End of bug. End of flyswatter.

Equally unsettling was a species of wasp, jet-black in color, about three inches in length, with a wicked, curving abdomen reminiscent of a scorpion's. If they have wasps in Hell, these would be the prototype.

Another day, another hazardous journey outdoors, having milk and cookies with some U.S. Marines. Okay, so technically it wasn't milk and cookies. It was beer, and more beer. (Details, details.) What could have been a perfectly bibulous afternoon was spoiled somewhat when one of these dreadful insects chose to land on my face. Politely excusing myself, I removed my glasses and hurled them into the next time zone.

The Marines were greatly impressed, if you define "impressed" as shooting beer out their noses while rolling around on the ground.

"If you could throw a grenade that far, we'd sign you up," one finally spluttered. I dunno. Something tells me I wouldn't be very good at creeping silently through buggy jungles.

I once asked one of the Marines if anything scared him. He thought for a minute and said -- only one thing, being hit in the head by a bottle thrown from a passing car. Apparently this had once happened to a friend of his. And I thought: O, great. Now I've got another thing to be paranoid about. I don't get out much these days.

When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door When butterflies renounce their drams I shall but drink the more!

-- Emily Deckinson

Well, what would she know about it? She never went out of her room.

One of the nice things about staining one's deck -- apart from the innate satisfactions of hard work, of pride in one's craft, and of enjoying the fresh air and sunshine -- is that this is perhaps the only sort of work that can be done quite effectively while legally drunk. Indeed, there is legislation before Parliament that would require deckstainers/dequstaineurs (in both official languages) to be stinking blotto, as opposed to simply stinking, which is the usual result of spending the afternoon crawling over a great big reflecting cedar magnifying glass being fried by UV rays.

But an emergency has arisen. The refrigerator contains no beer; it instead contains only an insipid liquid known as "light" beer. The Marines would have known what to do with "light" beer -- they would have called in an air strike on it. Well, cram this "nobility of work" masquerade, Jack. If I have to be sober, I've got better things to do.

Day 2

As perhaps the world's leading authority on deck-staining (you had someone else in mind?), I am often asked to calculate how much stain will be needed to cover the deck. My standard answer is: Bugger off. I didn't get to where I am today by giving out free advice.

But when repeatedly prodded, especially with pointy gardening implements, I will estimate that completely covering the average 10 x 15-foot deck will require about 440 1-gallon cans of stain. Of course, if you choose to take the stain out of the cans and put it on the deck with a brush or something, you might be able to get by with considerably fewer.

If you do decide to directly apply the stain, first set aside one of the cans. Open this can and make sure it is thoroughly stirred. Then pour the contents of this can over your head. The reasons for doing this are twofold:

1. It is necessary to propitate the God of the Deck, who lives underneath. His name is Larry.

2. You're going to look like this by the time you're done anyway, so best to get it over with all at once.

Now, lie down on the deck and roll around vigorously. First coat done! Time for a beer!

While in the house, be sure to touch as many things as possible. Walls, TV remote, children, floral arrangements. You need to do this because the police will find it easier to later retrace your movements. They'll need to do this because your wife is going to kill you.

Day 3

Because the finishing coat is of such critical importance, I recommend that you hire a couple of neighborhood kids who are ideally not afraid of bees.

And when it is completed, you can sit at the window and polish off a few well-deserved beers and use your megaphone to cry out to the neighbors: "See what I (or the neighborhood kids) hath Wrought!"

For what you look upon is more than a well-maintained and freshly stained deck, more than the altar of the smoking, hissing barbeque, more even than the symbol of stolid, bourgeous suburbia.

It is indeed the flat, rectangular, brown footprint of Civilization itself. Like a Colossus it rides astride the land and gazes unto the horizon. It represents Man's dominion over Nature, the triumph of Order over Chaos, the . . .

What? Go out and sit on it? Are you nuts?

Them's bees out thar!

1. I am Paul (née Saul) of Tarsus, a saint of a fellow (enc. glowing reference from the Thessalonians, Rick and Vera), and a deeply embittered claimant regarding an incident on the road to Damascus, your file #513-4B-8012.

2. While approaching Damascus, a blinding light DID envelop me, and I DID become one with the ground, in the process sustaining multiple abrasions, contusions, wounds, traumas, e.g., my right ankle, which will now torment me 'til the end of my days and likely beyond, though this is a matter of some theological debate. And I HAVE since been plagued by vivid and troubling Vietnam flashbacks, all the more unsettling in that I've never been to Vietnam. And my ankle is still very, VERY tender. Not that I'm complaining or anything.

2a. And my boyhood dreams of attending matador school ARE shattered and lain waste.

2b. But how, you ask, can a sinning wretch of a claims adjuster even put a price on boyhood dreams?

2c. I CAN provide an itemized breakout, if you like.

3. And a voice said unto me: "O, tremendous! Why do I always get the lucky ones?" And the voice was familiar, for it WAS the voice of the Tour Director.

4. And so I spake: "If this be sunstroke, then lavish upon me rare herbs and oils, with a UVP rating of not less than 25. A gin and tonic would be nice, too."

5. And lo I was answered, "As the hoof of the camel strikes rock, and the paw of the dog scratches dirt, so too does the human minesweeper stumble across yet another Zionist anti-personnel device! Abracadabra, that I were a goatherd, and could liberate this flock!" And my companions WERE struck speechless, even Joseph the Philadelphian. This WAS surely a miracle, as he would not otherwise shut up.

6. And then the voice spoke AGAIN, harsh and loud, as through a megaphone: "Allah right, left, right, everyone back on the bus, we're already behind schedule."

7. And so I was "assisted" to my feet -- nay, not by professionally trained and licenced paramedics, but by high-school dropouts and torturers, thus gravely compounding my injuries, the pains of which to this day are just barely dulled by Percodan and large amounts of cooking sherry. Yea, I dwell in the valley of the soft-tissue injury, and my sex life is nothing to pound my chest about either. And though my eyes WERE open, I could see nothing, for my eyes WERE full of dust.

8. And I am still missing one contact lens.

9. And so I was taken to Damascus; and there, for three days and for three nights, I neither ate nor drank, unless you count that stuff they sent up from Room Service, which incidentally afflicted me with a near-fatal case of the trots. And for three days and for three nights, I saw nothing. For the brochure DID promise "dizzy dazzling Damascus delights." Which consisted of: a) probably the worst nightclub act this side of Tehran; b) the fabled Museum of Broken Bits of Pottery; and c) a colorful encounter with some scimitar-waving Bedouin, costing me a brand-new Pentax w/flash attachment, supplementary claim #513-4B-9023.

10. And verily my ankle WAS swollen to the size of a small poodle, but much more purple. But the Tour Director WAS dismissive of my specialness, often encouraging me to amuse my fellow travellers with "interpretive dance." This WAS doubly annoying when prompted by gunfire. And he WOULD refer to me openly -- and, I would argue, contemptuously -- as a "sleepy-eepy slug-a-bed." Thus, I have suffered Mental Anguish.

11. And I don't know about you, but I think that some degree of misrepresentation applies when a Hotel boasts of "23 Color TV channels" and every single one of them features Bashar Assad either making a speech or reviewing troops.

12. Yet when this scandal WAS brought to the attention of the Hotel's management, WAS it addressed with honeyed tongue and swift remedy?

13. Rather, your righteous correspondent WAS ambushed by crabby Hotel staff and/or Spies, and lowered from the Hotel, in a basket!

14. Sure, it was sort of fun at first, but after twenty times or so, it DID become bothersome and vexatious.

15. Especially when they would "forget" the basket.

16. So ask me about my vacation.

17. And in conclusion, it is better to marry than burn. Dost thou knowest of my obnoxious and loudly-dressed brother-in-law, Titus?

18. Titus of Harvard?

19. Harvard Law?

Dated this, the twenty-fifth Day
of the seventh Month of the Third
Year of the Dawn of the Third
Millenium, or so I am Informed

Blotshire, County of Gout

Little Nestor,

I am in receipt of the Videotape of your goalkeeping debut against that bitterest of interschool Rivals, Primpton K.G. -- how unsporting on its part, to so exploit your genius for the Angle; and after the sixteenth Tally, I suspect that malice was actively, as it were, afoot. But tho' I am Vexed and Affrighted, to have in the Hydacott line a great-grandson of such scant athletic promise, I offer to you this Counsel: It is Defeat -- wrenching, punishing, scouring, excoriating, shattering, o'erarching &c. Defeat -- that obliges us to Reflect, to take Stock, to re-examine our place in Creation's intricate Scheme, and also to indulge in whimsical notions of plumping up the Gas bill and never, ever, paying it.

For I, too, Nestor, have sat down to sup at Chez Disappointment (O, and the maître'd, Cruel & Cutting, ohohoho! Yes, Nestor, let us chuckle as we contemplate the Menu! Enough, Nestor.), though it should be noted, that when I was but a squab, and like a Colossus bestrode the pitch . . . why, the Air fair quivered with shouts of Resignation and Despair, it being the Manager's exceptional Cunning to keep me in Reserve, to be unleashed when the Foe's prospects seemed especially Grim, thus inflicting upon him maximum psychological Damage. "Alas, 'tis time to quit the Field!" went the Cry, once young Hydacott arrived on't! And even in Victory -- as in a crucial match in 'Thirty-two, when I leapt into the Fray unbidd'n, thumped home the fatal Ball, and was borne in triumph by a swarm of green-jersey'd Lads -- even then, I sensed that this joy could not last; nor did it, following delivery unto my red-jersey'd Teammates. Adversity ennobles; it is the Seamstress of Humility, a Robe well-fitting those whom the name of Hydacott would Crown. The truest Blade is forged in the hottest coals; the Vase which is cracked, then mended, is all the more Precious; H.M.'s stoutest Trueheart, oddly absented from H.M.'s spring Tea, remains the very soul of Devotion. Mayhap the Summons was mislaid in H.M.'s Royal Mail. Again.

I remember, Nestor, during the early days of the Unpleasantness, when all looked bleak, it was my nocturnal Custom to drop by 10 Downing, to favor the Prime Minister with my reflections on the Matter: "I say, let's go over There and give that Kaiser * rascal a proper scolding!" I would

[ * Lord Hydacott's somewhat spotty recollection of the age's principal actors should be excused; his memory isn't what it used to be, and it wasn't much to start with. -- The Editors ]

exhort him, and then the Constable would exhort me to exhort elsewhere, I was grander than the "bleedin' air-raid sirens." (A sturdy, if impertinent chap, and I trust he was later sent to stand Vigil over our interests in Outer Upper Wogistan.) Still, my oratory doubtless awoke in Mr. Cromwell **

[ ** Ditto. ]

the knowledge that British resolve would not be wanting; that the couchant Lion was not slumbering, but Coiled; and that Lord Bunkapie Hydacott was eager to shoulder his share of kitbag and Rifle, unless of course his Bursitis flared up again, in which case he would be delighted to instead shoulder the office of High Commissioner to the Bahamas.

There was quite a To-do about it, but I finally accepted command of the family Regiment, the 13th Shrieking Hussars, that "troublous Crew/who/turned the Tide/at Water/loo" after Wellington was so kind as to donate it to the Froggies. We soon saw action, m'boy, in the epic Charge of the 13th Shrieking Hussars (you have seen, at Blotshire Manor, the fine oil-on-velvet triptych commemorating the affair). Nestor, I judge you now old enough to hear the Story of that ill-starred Day; how I, Sabre a-glitter, led a thunderous autocar excursion into that wee sleepy Hamlet -- unmarked on our maps, but known to the Natives as Myfoots-under-Yurtyre. Initially repulsed -- such language! -- I ordered the newly liberated Citizen to go alert his fellow Resistance Fighters, whereupon he limped off (with a decided Goebbelesque tilt) and took cover in a nearby Tavern. Realizing all too late his treachery, I gave the signal for pell-mell Retreat, only to find that my Troopers had already improvised a similar Remedy; Sabre a-glitter, I brought up the Rear. By God, we were a frightful Sight, and all scattered afore our Rush, save one tenacious Defender, who simply would not be budged, inspiring in the ranks of the Hussars much Alarum and Confusion. Having before witnessed such Behaviour on the Parade-ground, I knew that only cool Leadership would carry the Day -- dashing to the head of the Column, I myself engaged the Enemy tooth and Nail, in the Process incurring many painful Wounds. Had not the d--d Kriegpoodle absconded with my Sabre a-toothmarked, it would have made a fine Souvenir, which one day might have been your Inheritance, Nestor. Instead I intend to bequeath you my priceless "Fatima of the Ten-thousand Girdles" postcard collection, complete with magnifying Lens.

Crying "Huzzah!" we surged forward, and a spirited Battle ensued on the Steps of the Town Hall, mainly concerning which idiot of a Sub-altern had forgotten the picnic Basket. I did not anticipate a counter-Attack so soon, but this was War, or near enough it, and Fortune is fleeting: that Postmistress was a Master of close-quarters Broomwork, and swept us back in considerable Disarray. It was the last I saw of my trusty bat-man, Smedley; I fear he was taken Prisoner. This could've been no treat, as the good girthsome Woman rather resembled Goering, or his Sister.

So we were well-Blooded by the time we first set boots on Hunnish soil -- vividly I recall that cursed road known as the Gottdamptstrausse, and my Devil-may-care sprint along its entire hellish Length, ducking and dodging, roaring Oaths like a Bedlamite, hoping to draw off any Sniper fire, that the Shrieking Hussars might advance in Safety. Of course, Dempsey's Second Army had secured the area some Decades previous, but one can never be too Careful.

I am your Great-Grampapa,

"Bunky"

Translator's note:

François-Eugène Vidocq, a somewhat rehabilitated petty crook and enthusiastic police informant, became in 1809 the first chief of the Sûreté, the French equivalent of Scotland Yard. Wise in the ways of wascals, the Descartes of disguise, Vidocq drifted through Paris like some rancid reminder of the Bastille, striking terror into thieves and thugs. Also, occasionally, criminals.

Please do not quarrel over the window seats; while the vehicle is in motion, it is forbidden to jab, prod, or otherwise molest the driver with your pitiful replicas of the Eiffel Tower; and let Citoyen Vidocq be your dour guide as we cruise in air-conditioned comfort down the grim boulevards and sinister alleys once patrolled by this extraordinary officer of the Law.

April 5, 1815

The intrepid Vidocq [Vidocq commonly referred to himself in the third person; 'twas all the rage, in the 'Leonic Age. -- Trans.] has infiltrated a filthy gang of counterfeiters, large unwashed brutes, who mint treasure which meets with limited acclaim in the market, for it is the truth, that a French merchant's kindly eye grows narrow when presented with coin which is grossly misshapen and also a vivid hue of mud. The encrusted conspirators are consequently not men of great happiness but instead are greatly talented at recrimination and insult. Little do the spattered scoundrels suppose, the insoluble Vidocq, incredibly disguised as a barrel of dirt, gathers fistfuls of evidence underneath their very noses! And how the viscous villains guffaw with dread as Vidocq tumbles from Vidocq's confinement, leaps to Vidocq's feet, brushes off Vidocq's trousers, brushes off Vidocq's waistcoat, brushes off Vidocq's château [ "(n., m.) Castle; palace; country seat or manor." I give up -- you figure it out. I go now, to rest. -- Trans.] and lets fly Vidocq's terrible cry!

"I am Vidocq!"

As the impetuous Vidocq abruptly departs via the rooftop, Vidocq ponders briefly whether Vidocq's intrusion was perhaps at a bad time. While tending to Vidocq's various complaints and abrasions, Vidocq resolves to in the future announce Vidocq's presence in a more discreet fashion, ideally by post. A telephone call would be even better, but Vidocq has not yet gotten around to inventing the telephone.

May 13, 1817

Unbustably disguised as Vidocq's beloved Maman, the indescribable Vidocq returns to Vidocq's office to do paperwork as Vidocq's doctor has recommended. Where are those pesky scissors, Vidocq mutters, mutters . . . what is this? Does Vidocq detect the foul odor of treachery, or does Vidocq need a bath?

No, it is the foul odor of treachery! Vidocq alertly deduces that Vidocq's agents have again located Vidocq's confidential cask of cognac, for Vidocq's agents dance a merry quadrille atop Vidocq's confidential cask of cognac while swapping slanderous jests about their esteemed chief, Vidocq! Vidocq is this, Vidocq is that -- how Vidocq's ears blaze at such impudence! Vidocq's reprimand mows down the rioters like a whiff of grapeshot!

"I am Vidocq!"

"And I am the Empress Josephine!"

"And I am drunk, stinking drunk!"

"Hit the road, bewhiskered Grandmaman, before we decide to nail you up on a morals rap."

The imperturbable Vidocq will retreat, but not before Vidocq sustains many wounds in glorious combat.

December 3, 1822

Buoyantly disguised as a swirling haystack, the innavigable Vidocq has a band of demented river pirates under surveillance. Blinded by greed to Vidocq's elaborate trap, the crazed corsairs broadside Vidocq most cruelly with their black-bannered raft, and as hideous, mocking laughter and unspeakably vile curses explode across the water, the rabid raiders lasso their prize with a fusillade of grappling hooks. In retrospect, Vidocq suspects that Vidocq's hideous, mocking laughter and unspeakably vile curses were in tactical error, as Vidocq is soon implicated, and even Vidocq's splendid Declaration of the Rights of Vidocq fails to enlighten the barmy buccaneers, though it does provide them considerable amusement. Vidocq is plunged into depression, not to mention inSeineity, and it is rather more invigorating than Vidocq would prefer.

January 10, 1827

The incorruptible Vidocq has been summoned by Vidocq's superior, the Chevalier Duplessis, to discuss rumors of the Sûreté's complicity in a recent bank heist. An indignant Vidocq unbelievably disguises Vidocq as the Chevalier Duplessis in a gesture of tribute and also hoping to benefit from any confusion.

"Vidocq, you doorknob, will you knock off this disguise nonsense already? You look like a perfect nitwit."

"Oho! Then it is agreed, there is a resemblance?"

"We have had reports that during the infamous hijacking of the Banque DuGauche, one of the bandits was seen to discard his mask, and then, with a melodramatic flourish which was apparently intended to strike awe, but which in fact struck most observers as stagy, affected, and utterly lacking in the delicate but rich texture that enhances the finest French street theatre -- exemplified best, in my opinion, by the wry, yet poignant antics, of Bou-Bou, the Deformed Boy of Lyons . . . hmm, hmm! . . . er, proclaim, 'I am Vidocq!' Ring any bells?"

The indivertable Vidocq marches smartly off so that Vidocq might devote Vidocq's maximum attention to the case. It is of course only an educated speculation by Vidocq, but this atrocity sounds awfully like the handiwork of Vidocq's diabolical twin brother, Eugène-François, most likely in Switzerland or Tahiti or good golly knows where by now.

I was watching CNN today on the aftermath of the blackout, and one of their sidebar bulletins said something like,

"Water being trucked into Ohio by the National Guarl."

Surely this is a misspelling.

Everyone knows that vital liquids are dispensed by the National Gourd.

Lashing out in muscular Romantic abandon, Gai swishes the
steely rapier of Mate at N. Closetti, a jumpy Italian amateur, who
on the 38th move becomes flustered, blows a Rook, and stumbles,
evidently agitated, from the parlour. To kibitzers Gai laconically
comments, "Witness how the most impregnable defensive shell is
teased unto ruin by the strategically-placed footsie."

Budapest, 1901

The wily Belgian kaffeehauser Poubelle declares before his
match with Todzheim that he will move the White pieces by the power
of telekinesis. He at once launches a blistering attack that leads
to several glaring positional errors -- and most observers agree,
his game is surely doomed. Fortunately it transpires that
Poubelle's method of propulsion is not mysterious "Marconi-rays,"
but instead, concussive puffs of his atrocious breath. Dizzy with
nausea, Todzheim resigns after only thirteen moves.

Moscow, 1921

Thunderously cheered by an audience thick with officialdom,
grimly insistent on playing Red, I. Blodnyov revolutionizes the game
with "scientific Trotskyite" tactics. Blodnyov soon marches his
Kamerad Kommisar into a nest of Illegal Reactionary Ecclesiastics
and Obsolete Cossack Marauders. Sensing perhaps the historic
necessity of Chekamate, foe (and secret German agent) Viktor Kulakstein
commits Tsaricide, pleading sudden illness. With, alas, a bleak
prognosis. In time, the "scientific Trotskyite" school of chess
thought will itself prove rather toxic.

London, 1928

During a grueling blindfold tournament against 452 opponents,
Max Voorvan tallies up an astounding 77 wins and 13 draws. Stunned
analysts are left to imagine the results had Voorvan, too, been
blindfolded.

Havana, 1935

Infuriated at muffing a slight end-game advantage against
Fissure, the Hungarian wunderkind Bratski stomps from the table to
commence plotting his revenge. As though the hidden structural
timbers of the universe were pawed and snuffled at by some demonic
terrier, a remorseless logic begins to hound Fissure, initially by
ordering pizzas up to his room at all hours. The next morning in the
hotel's restaurant, guess whose breakfast is annihilated when impish
Fate sabotages a salt-shaker's top? Dispirited, his concentration
shattered, the haggard champion trudges off to his suite, where a
heaven-sent bucket of water mercifully renders him unconscious
before he can notice that his bed has been short-sheeted. Or, God
forbid, climb into it.

Chicago, 1952

Famed for his wry aphorisms such as "Yo, hot mama!" and "Fifty
bucks, you've got to be kidding," and "Honest, Officer, she told me
she was twenty-eight," the hypermodernist innovator Rex O'Daybuss
returns to competitive form after several decades of enforced
"vacation." Disregarding what many consider his soundest axiom,
"The standard-size Staunton pieces are inedible," he captures and
devours his own Queen, and then plucks a pin from the hem of his
gown and attempts to perform an eyeectomy before being wrestled down
by impatient spectators. The remainder of the match, against the
Viennese theoretician Floyd, is conducted with such horrible gagging
sounds as to seriously discomfit every other player in the hall.
O'Daybuss goes on to utter defeat, insanity, and much acclaim as a
professional flamenco dancer.

Buenos Aires, 1974

Playing Black, Lazaro has found a flaw in Primnitch's feared
Albanian Gambit. After 1. Pawn to King's Knight Four, Lazaro
replies 1. ... Fist to Primnitch's Nose. Unable to finesse the
variation, or stop the bleeding, Primnitch graciously concedes.
The Lazaro Defence enjoys considerable vogue for some years
thereafter, but has lately been neutralized by the Primnitch
Counter Flying Drop Kick.

There are certain subjects -- like German disco -- that are simply not spoken of in polite company.

We might disagree on much, but one thing we can all agree on is that German disco well and truly sucked, so there's no need to bring up the matter.

Look at the proposed EU constitution.

Nowhere in it is the subject of German disco even hinted at!

Which tells me that even the Germans wish to disavow this terrible memory.

And I'm with them. It's time to forgive, and move on.

Indeed, we never discussed . . . German disco.

Brrrrr!

It's a rerun tonight on The Blog Quebecois, with "Letters From Lord Hydacott" here and at Dodgeblogium.

Actually the latter version is somewhat more readable -- I broke up a few of the denser paragraphs, though they were closer to the 18th-Century style I was trying to emulate.

Just one or two more of these, and then I'm going to actually have to write something instead of relying on past glories to retain your flickering interest.

Expect many more insights into German disco.

Ewww.

Politics

A mess, as usual.

Science

People invent stuff.

Business

None of yours.

Arts

I know what I like.

Leisure

You must be kidding.

Classified

Access denied.

Letters

Trying to dodge your blogging obligations again, huh?

Editorial

Yep.

Right. You know the drill by now -- you come here expecting timely, rollicking humor and you instead get directed here or to Dodgeblogium, where I'm attempting to yet again peddle my musty wares.

Well, I promise this is the (second) last time. I do have one more piece, previously unseen, from gnotalex's Big Box O' Chuckles that I plan to send up probably later this week assuming I can fight off the spiders guarding it and rewrite a few parts.

But some of the newcomers (thanks to Natalie Solent for linking to the piece immediately below) might want to check it out anyway.

It's superbly written, elegant and decorous, and it makes fun of the French.

Sure, making fun of the French is sort of like dynamiting geese in a barrel (the shocking secret behind that liver-flavored stuff you put on crackers), but someone's got to do it, and it might as well be me.

I meant making fun of the French, not dynamiting geese.

That would be unsporting.

Some regard them as contradictory, mutually exclusive; but I say -- what's wrong with a fellow holding down two jobs? Stinging were the taunts of Klopps, an uncomely sawed-off yegg who found the combination richly humorous, and so I was obliged to assist him into a state of horizontal repose where he might usefully reflect upon his artistic prejudices and injuries. The exquisite tranquility of the moment I commemorated in a haiku of somewhat longish measure:

yellow pearls scattered
foolish grin disarrayed
a bitter harvest, swine, your dentist awaits

I've been down some spooky alleys to get here. When things got really tough I wrote to the newspaper lady and gained some sound counsel -- but suicide's for sissies, and that's not my cup of tea, hanging around all day waiting for potential rescuers.

With a despairing cry, I vaulted that guardrail and launched myself off that bridge into a promising career in the automotive industry, but then I had what you might say was a philosophical dispute with some upper-management clowns concerning the precise nature of "nine o'clock sharp," and subsequently one of the little varmints contracted soap poisoning, which is a nasty type of poisoning but also quite amusing; and the other suggested rather testily as I secured him to the "Bug-B-Gone" rotary grille scrubber that perhaps I should direct elsewhere my quest for spiritual fulfilment.

As he vanished into the billowing steam, I pondered his advice, and today, I'm grateful for it. I'm my own boss now, cracking books and punching crooks, not clocks, and I couldn't be happier. As Stefan McCann, Private Investigator and Neo-Synchronistic Poet, I enjoy frequent opportunities to curse, travel unshaven, and behave violently in public; yet I frolic in dewy meadows, planting here a whimsy, plucking there a bloom, like how I get a big lump in my throat when I see a criminal, limned by moonbeams. What's more, it looks much better on my business cards than Steve McCann, the Hot Wax Guy.

The Case of the Unchaste Case

Chapter 1

A lambent Hibachi of a midsummer's night microwave, the kind of sticky sweltering eve that trips the armpit switch and crumples your trenchcoat up like tinfoil on a baked poetato. Poetato, get it? Yeah? Same to you, pal.

I was wrestling with the third draft of a densely-allegorical sonnet, "when her eyes were gunmetal-blue," which, incidentally, is the haunting centrepiece of my first collection of verse, squeezing joy's trigger, available soon in your finer bookstores, assuming I can get near the window display. Ahem:

at that time, then, she was bonny and fair
when her eyes were gunmetal-blue

Pretty good, but somehow it felt . . . incomplete. Now, your typical Elizabethan sonnet has fourteen lines of iambic pentameter arranged in varying but restricted rhyme schemes, such as the e'ergreen ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. What I had was a two-line sonnet with a rhyme scheme of AB, and I wasn't too positive on the iambiiwhatsit jazz. My education was tragically cut short by popular demand.

Sure, I could have left the poem just as it was -- and a lovely poem it would have been -- but what of the innumerable neo-synchronistic poetry consumers out there? Would they be content to linger rapturously over the distilled perfection of my Econosonnetâ„¢? No! Whack their snouts with an evocative semi-stanza like that, and they'll want more, more, more! Ordinarily, I'd have no trouble knocking off another dozen lines of fine poetry -- most days, I average 100 A-1 poems, and another 200 or so with minor defects. But tonight, see, I was blocked, and being blocked is like

The manuscript was puddled with sweat, sprinkled with eraser crumbs and doodles. I shoved it aside and into a glass dashed a splash of Old Buzzard; then, seeing as only three-fourths of the fifth remained, I polished that off too.

Maybe . . . hmmm . . . wait! What if . . . ifff . . .

at that time, then, she was bonny and fair
when her eyes were gunmetal-blue
AT THAT TIME, THEN, SHE WAS BONNY AND FAIR
WHEN HER EYES WERE GUNMETAL-BLUE

No obstacle can long delay the mighty bulldozer that is poetic inspiration! Giddy with diesel fumes, with a roaring in my ears, I slammed home the gearshift and lurched into battle -- but at that delicate, pivotal instant, the dumpster's door was savagely flung open, and Fancy's Winged Chariot fell apart like some flimsy toy made of plastic and wire.

Chapter 2

"Dammit, can't you see I'm trying to create in here, and now you've gone and stalled my bulldozer!" Gathering up all my pencils, I hurled them down. "I demand solitude, for only in solitude will the wisp of my Muse wander," I sagely chuckled, thumping the desk with my head for emphasis.

"I . . . I am convulsed with regret," purred a sultry voice. "What an inconsiderate snip of a lass am I, to so recklessly disturb your meditations . . . propelling myself on splendidly-proportioned legs, I shall exit swiftly."

"And quietly!"

THUMP

"Yes, quietly. Perchance you will grant my petty request an indulgent grunt when suits you it best. If --" she sniffled.

"If I live --" she sobbed.

THUMP

"-- that long. Boohoo," she boohooed.

"So good" THUMP "bye already, do I have to draw you a map?"

THUMPTHUMPTHUMP

I felt one of my migraines coming on. I looked up.

She was a tall blonde babe, stacked and with plenty of dignity, just the way I like 'em. And O, neo-synchronistic coincidence -- her eyes were gunmetal-blue!

Chapter 3

Her name was Lola. Instinctively I began considering the rhyming possibilities: Bola, cola, koala, molar, shoulder, bosoms . . . Also, what she would look like with no-clothes-a. It's important to size up the client. The client's bosoms sized up at 40-D, easy.

"I'll bet you'd look good with no-clothes-a," I said, and then I slapped my face, hard, for I had said a sexism, or an Italianism, or both.

Chapter 4

She lit a cigarette and said, "Will you take the case?"

And I said, "What's in it for me?"

Suddenly I realized why she was lugging the huge ceramic pig. She slammed it over my noggin a couple of times and a cool drizzle of spilling silver soothed my ragged nerves as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Then she yanked me up on tiptoe and landed a sizzling kiss with her luscious lips mashed against mine.

Um, not that I'm implying that I have luscious lips, let's get that straight. I have very masculine lips. Right then, true, they had that pouting, bee-stung look, probably in consequence of having a cigarette extinguished on them.

It's considered poor form for a private investigator to show pain. Fortunately, a neo-synchronistic poet is under no such hindrance.

"Ouch," he said. Tears streamed from his eyes. I took the case.

Chapter 5

The trail finally led to an abandoned warehouse out of town. A bad actor name of Xavier Fishrott was holed up inside it like a horrible smell.

When I said this character was a bad actor, I wasn't kidding. He had a special gift that left audiences helpless with laughter, especially when he attempted Shakespeare. Was it the massive contempt of reviewers that soured him on society? Or did the giggles of Hamlet put the bomb in his basket? I don't know. I don't worry too much about the psychology of these punks. I just shut them down.

I figured to lull him with gentle flattery: "Curtain call, Fishrott! Come out and take a bow!" He responded with a sneer:

"Youse dirty gumshoe, youse the one wot finked my scag!"

Not to mention the sickening belch of a burp gun. And that's something that gets me gnawing on the Valium bottle. Let's face it, boys and girls, there's nothing uglier than truly inept Cagneyisms.

Chapter 6

I kicked down that door and went in there, chanting a bantering canto:

steel verbs be my sword
& bronze nouns my shield
thick is my armor
a coconut, unpeel'd
rhyme be my doublet
& rhythm my buckler
so come out with your hands up
you stupid motherf --

I was interrupted by heckling of the worst sort, mechanized. A burst of criticism smashed into me, ripping off my left arm.

"Hey, you jerk, I was speaking metaphorically!"

"I detest metaphor and all manner of florid imagery! You sound like one of those soppy Romantics! Wordsworth -- bah!

Two problems confronted me. The first was that I had to concede that Fishrott's textual analysis was not entirely without merit; though I would argue, only in a narrow, formally aesthetic sense. In brevity's interest, I will decline to offer here an extensive rebuttal, incorporating, say, the sturdy tenets of "catachrestopathomania" theory, as enunciated by Grimshaw, et. al.¹

Suffice it to note that, certainly, metaphor can be abused; but in moderation, it often adds that prized "extra bit of oomph"² that amplifies the poem's internal dynamic, speeds it along its impish arc -- makes it "stick," a spitball on the blackboard of the reader's mind. Of course, I was secretly thrilled by the comparison to Wordsworth.

The second problem was that I was wearing a bow tie, and a clip-on at that; but I eventually converted it into a jaunty tourniquet, and then I went to retrieve my pistol, which I had forgotten -- again! -- at the pawn shop. One of these days I'm going to get a holster for it, too, and then watch out. While I was there, I accidentally phoned the police, who were gracious enough to go over and arrest Fishrott, sparing me another gruelling bus ride.

Chapter 7

i've said it before
i'll say it again
on crime I wage war
with fist and with pen

"I even autographed it for him, but the judge threw the book at me. Said I was out of order, he didn't have $24.95 on him, and he didn't like poetry anyway. Then he threw the book at Fishrott. Cruel and unusual punishment, but so what?"

"I only wish the sentence had been even more severe, utterly crushing the verminous miscreant under the terrible wheel that is Justice," cooed Lola. "An infinity dodging crusty rolls in Sam Beckett's Dine 'N' Drama isn't enough."

I swept her into my arm. "You and me, toots, we could make beautiful neo-synchronistic poetry together. There's just one thing I ask."

"Anything. Anything for you, 'Stinky.'"

"Ditch the cigarette this time, huh?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

¹ T. Grimshaw and D. Buckblatt, The Poet As Loose Cannon -- A Syncretic Methodology (New York: Norton, 1978), pp. 810-96

² R. Gawdley Ffinch, The Dummies Guide To Small Bulldozer Repair (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1999, p. 13

If you have a power sander, dispose of it now. Throw it in the garbage, give it to Goodwill, kill it with a cutting torch.

People with power sanders are like people with pickup trucks. When people need to move on the cheap, they think of people with pickup trucks.

"Yeah, Jerry's got a pickup truck! Maybe he can help us out!"

Similarly people who need something sanded on the cheap think of people with power sanders.

Thus it was I found myself today at my aunt's place, power sanding her . . . ceiling.

She'd had the ceiling in her TV room covered with wooden slats, with an antique wash, and they needed to be sanded before the final Varathane finish.

I don't have a big power sander; not an industrial-strength belt sander, just a regular Black & Decker orbital/straight jobbie, weighing maybe three pounds.

Still. Try climbing up a wobbly ladder, holding the sander (which mysteriously gained a pound more each time I lifted it) straight over your head, making two or three passes, crawling down wobbly ladder, moving said ladder over a foot.

Repeat as necessary. After I'd been doing this for 30 minutes, I thought I was having a heart attack, so I adjourned to the porch for a cigarette and to contemplate my mortality.

I could picture it vividly: Weeping throngs. The priest intoning, "Well, at least he died using his most prized tool."

My ghostly fists beating at the inside of the coffin: "No! I hate sanding! That's why I bought the damned thing! I thought it'd save time! I much prefer my drill!"

So I reiterate: Get rid of your power sander. Or my aunt.

WASHINGTON Nov. 13 — To a grieving nation, Jacqueline Kennedy was stoic following her husband's assassination. But over games of tennis with a priest who counseled her, she apparently revealed her feelings, including thoughts of suicide.

"I'm no good to them," she told the Rev. Richard McSorley, as they traded tennis strokes at Robert Kennedy's Hickory Hill estate. "I'm so bleeding inside."

Now I wonder how that worked:

"And the guilt, Father. If only I "

thwack "UHNN!"

thwock "ANNGH!"

'hadn't told the driver to "

"ONUGH!" thwack

"hang a left at Elm "

thwock "UUUAAHH!"

"Street, then maybe "

"ONNGG!" thwack

"There, there, my "

thwock "UUNNGGH!"

"child, it wasn't your fault "

"AAARRGG!" thwack

thwackthwockthwackthwock wock wack wock wack wock wock tock tock tick tock . . .

"Out!"

"Out? Out?! Are you blind? The goddamned ball was a goddamned foot inside the line!"

"Language, Father, language."

It was while steaming open my wife's mail that I reflected on Henry Stimson's sage counsel. You'll recall that Stimson served as Secretary of State (1929-33) in the Hoover Administration. While in that position, he closed down State's cryptoanalysis section, on the basis that "Gentlemen don't read each other's mail."

Fortunately "Khyrystyhyl" (not her real name) is no gentleman.

And neither am I.

Uh-oh, here comes "Khyrystyhyl." She's in one of her "moods," I can tel
-----

"Despite all of this stupid bullsh** that the Republican National Committee, or whatever the fu** they call them, that they were saying that they're all angry about how two of these ads were comparing Bush to Hitler? I mean, out of thousands of submissions, they find two. They're like fu**ing looking for Hitler in a haystack," Cho told the audience, according to the Drudge Report.

But Cho said Bush should not be compared to Hitler because he is not as good a leader as the instigator of the Holocaust was.

"I mean, George Bush is not Hitler," Cho stated. "He would be if he fu**ing applied himself. I mean he just isn't."

Painfully unfunny professional ethnic "comedienne" Margaret Cho.

Stand-up comedy rarely translates to paper (or pixels) successfully, but not even frequent doses of nitrous oxide (strictly for research purposes) can make this adolescent crap palatable.

Jay Leno some years ago in an interview was dismissive of most "political" comics (I quote from memory): "They get up on stage and it's all 'Barbara Bush is fat' and 'Reagan is stupid' and it's just not very good."

If true humor is grounded in truth, then let me propose that humor grounded in ignorance be hereafter referred to as a Cho(ke).

The other day I downloaded the classic text-only adventure game Zork. I have since spent a few hours (collectively) roaming around the mysterious and sometimes frustratingly unforgiving land of Zork.

Jack of the Obvious at King of Fools takes this to an amusing place.

Fool me once? Shame on thee.

Fool me twice? Shame on thee, again.

You think you're dealin' with a moron, bub?

Fool me thrice?

Hey!

Do guns cause crime? This study should answer the question definitively.

Linux Developer Gets Laid

Philadelphia, PA - In news that is sure to excite the Linux community, long time Linux developer Todd Stanton got laid.

"I still have trouble believing it myself," said Todd. "I was doing some coding when my power supply blew. Instead of pulling out the spare like I usually would, I decided to head down to Best Buy to check out the new DVD releases. Nothing new was out, so I bought another copy of 'The Matrix' since the one I had was pretty worn out. Turns out the checkout girl was a Matrix fan too and well one thing led to another."

Word spread rapidly on message boards and on IRC. "It's pretty irresponsible of him and shows his lack of dedication to Linux and the open source movement," said Fred Simpson. "If others try to emulate this behavior then a lot of projects could get derailed."

Others like Gary Wilcox were glad to hear the news, "We're tired of all those Microsoft developers shoving their Win-Ho's in our face. Now we can tell them about Todd. Who's laughing now?"

Some developers are also excited that this may increase their chances of getting lucky, but most are being realistic. Walker Crandall said, "We thought we'd all be doing the hokey-pokey after Bill Fitzsimmons got some during the LinuxWorld Conference in 1999. We were fooling ourselves. Nobody got nothing."

This is the third such occurrence for Linux developers since 1991.

From a funny site, BBSpot.

A lot of techie humor but you don't have to be a Webhead to get it.

Incidentally, techie humor writers get laid even less than Linux developers.

My hands are drenched with sticky, white fluid.

My clothes are stained with sticky, white fluid.

The walls are spattered with sticky, white fluid.

Yes, I've been painting the basement.

You thought elsewise? Get your mind out of the ggutter, DdDoriss.

DDDamn! I sssseem to have gggluedddddd myssself to the keyboarddddddddddddddddddddd

The Guardian:

The mathematical equation for the perfect joke was revealed by scientists in London yesterday. The calculation is c=(m+nO)/p.

In the formula, c is the funniness of the joke; m is the "comic moment" (arrived at by multiplying the punchline's funniness rating by the length of the joke's buildup); nO is the number of times the subject undergoes a pratfall, multiplied by the "ouch factor" - the social and physical pain of the indignity involved. The total is divided by the number of puns, p.

I'm somehow reminded of E.B. White's aphorism: "Humor can be dissected, as can a frog; but the thing dies in the process and the results are discouraging except to the pure of scientific mind."

Via Wizbang

I found myself at loose ends recently, so I decided to read the Pi to 1,000,000 Places website. Oh, sure, laugh. It just so happens that it's very interesting to read. It's much more interesting to read than, say, Fahrenheit 911 would be, if Fahrenheit 911 were a book. For one thing, it's got 999,997 more numbers.

Like "Once upon a time," it starts out with that familiar, and oddly comforting 3.14159 that we all remember from geometry class:

3.141592653589793238462643383279502
88419716939937510582097494459230781
64062862089986280348253421170679821
48086513282306647093844609550582231
72535940812848111745028410270193852

And that's about as far as I ever got before. It's a crying shame, because with a bit of perseverence you soon come to this:

23055876317635187312514712053292114
81918261861258673215791984148488291

And this:

72291098169091528017350671274858322
28718352093539657251210835791513698

And this, which I think you, too, will find remarkable:

87004250325558992688434959287612400
75587569464137056251400117971331662
07153715436006876477318675587148783
98908107429530941060596944315847753
97009439883949144323536685392099468

Look at this part. Do you see how the underlying theme is just merrily percolating away?

33515030904453280525977956589205545
62434297982794134891756382400771612
17332473642854016061004433764145722
07859217155914010378320201321338330
96380778904095723810558829392796374

I kind of thought that things got a bit bogged down here:

99960777108192404340081740190904995
22416945936708415512633504468374235
40829126465380354941695384687191594
78644821690719718827904537417589786
56539635436417496421138332391272660

But the plot suddenly solidifies,

099523758782168987072283241554043785
949364881659710601941701117753081977
960061020610758095418438226377174415
893089344024548077635898598386460044
819130632918212125220072806340890562

and takes on a lyrical, enchanting quality:

994084161606242840630833289799716187
050576519624049243165999515189664975
475039001147398903189687832645578474
537251804522359726877668762428507538
166167924880008234090320348071465228

I laughed!

750667503948846636777214679211218536
122363167218880380661069859370237909

I wept!

292400768050958188888031319229966049
866511923553334427159951307690820852

I got some more popcorn!

662967740310259473022591776820132591
077731585784477312075886450933987756
187562030923121386657807216261161812
700375605344622634949838625256665242

Look at the parts I've highlighted here. Doesn't that just say it all?

487838380437533386005245983771521980
857484740911596560510126102135739087
072786751026934059525840044387691660
888998376929711576754644468668682258
216315938415334021845430200445567878

I'll just quote the ending in full.

936425013887117023275555779302266785
803199930810830576307652332050740013
939095807901637717629259283764874790
177274125678190555562180504876746991
140839977919376542320623374717324703
369763357925891515260315614033321272
849194418437150696552087542450598956
787961303311646283996346460422090106
105779458151

The End?

I don't think so. This thing is destined for a sequel. They'll probably call it something dumb, like Pi to 2,000,000 Places, but I don't care -- I just know that I can't wait to read it.

when it’s right, it’s all right
when it’s wrong, it’s all wrong
when it’s gone, it’s all gone

-- roy orbison

Are you prepared for the unthinkable?

7. Read

People in pre-Internet times used to read "books" and "magazines", written materials once created in printable format to pass the time. Some e-books are still available on paper, and may offer a short-term solution until your power is back and your broadband is restored. If reading is not an option, as a last resort, you may wish to try doing "chores," or try your hand at cooking. While these activities cannot replace the Internet, they may be able to make the down-time a little more tolerable.

Inasmuch as I ever think about the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, the image that comes to mind is of a sour old misanthrope who wrote a bunch of indigestible books and who also boinked the equally unappetizing Simone de Beauvoir, a feat of swordsmanship that earned him the Croix du combattant volontaire from a grateful French Government.

It recently came to my attention that the young Sartre, in an attempt to broaden his appeal, worked (unsuccessfully) on a cookbook. A few fragments from his diaries remain:

October 3

Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.

October 4

Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.

October 6

I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of a cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but my journey is still long.

Those who are fond of legislation and of sausage and of smilies ought not watch them being made.

-- Otto von Bismarck (sorta)

Via b3ta

Have converted to Mohammedism and taken a new name: I. bin Bizzy and probably will be doubly so for this week and much of the next.

That does not mean that research has not been proceeding apace at the prestigious gnotalex Institute for Advanced Blógging Technologies. We are pleased to roll out our latest tactical device, a Fearsome Doomsday Engine that will strike terror into the hearts of our enemies.

Indeed, one could even call it a "Weapon of Ass Destruction." If one were being vulgar, that is.

This is such a devastating apparatus that it will only be triggered in exceptional circumstances, like when a politician says or does something stupid. As such we expect to deploy it no more than three thousand times per day. Four, tops.

With no further ado, then, ladies and gentlemen: the Wheel! Of! Moron!

To most people, the inner workings of a computer are mysterious. They have no idea what an enormous task it is to execute even the simplest command.

For example, displaying a 100x100 block of blue pixels typically requires only a line or two of computer code. But behind the scenes it's a blur of activity as the code is broken down into assembly language and the desired object is built, all in the blink of an eye. Here's an animation showing exactly how complex the process is. Warning: music.

You wouldn't guess it from my name, but I'm actually one-quarter Irish, on my mother's side.

Therefore, by law, I am allowed to watch this and laugh. The rest of you may watch it and laugh (or not), but must afterwards surrender yourselves to your local Ministry of Ethnic Grievances for reprogramming.

Warning: Oirish.

Apologies for the lack of . . . if individual entries on a blog are called "posts" then should a collection of them be called "postage"? If so, could I use it to mail a letter?

Anyway, I've been having fun doing my taxes, and these are the sort of thoughts that bubble up while contemplating the ineffable mysteries of Schedule 5042 (1A).

Or: If I insult your computer, does that make me a machinist?

Or: Why don't they make air fresheners that smell like stale cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage? You'd think they'd be ideal at masking the real thing.

I'll stop now.

In these tense times, the sensitive lads at Something Awful have been kind enough to put up the Muslim Man Complaint Box: (Warning: Language.)

My child was drawing pictures for school and this is forbidden. What makes the situation worse is that the picture was of our whole family and also blessed Mohammad. It was not a very clear picture of Mohammad and I think his likeness would be considered obscured by the scriptures. Just to be sure I hanged my son and burned his body and then my brothers burned the school and also hanged the teacher. What I want to know is what can be done about the ability to draw? Any child can go about creating blasphemous rendering of Mohammad! This is lightning in the hands of the unprotected. My son is in the afterlife now because of these crayons and "construction" paper, which I say is "destruction" paper. That is a little joke, but I am not laughing. Something must be done.

Via Colby Cosh

A compendium of military hand signals. You never know when stuff like this could be useful.

Some language might be NSFW.

You ever seen Stevie Wonder's wife?

Neither has he.

What goes... *Click Click* "Is that it?", *Click Click* "Is that it?", *Click Click* "Is that it?"

Stevie Wonder doing a Rubik's Cube.

Stevie Wonder's favourite colour?

Corduroy.

In need of a few jokes to break the ice at the speech you're giving at Corporate HQ next week? You probably won't find them at Sickipedia, a wiki started by Rob Manuel of b3ta, dedicated to collecting -- you guessed it -- sick jokes. If you've got some of your own, you can contribute them there.

The Stevie Wonder examples are pretty mild (and at least we know that he’ll never read them). Be warned that many others are not for the squeamish, to say the least.

san se chardonnay chaiblie
pinot gris jiot
just to take the edge of
just to get the glow

loudon wainwright

Cracked was the poor man's Mad Magazine; same comic book format, but not as well done, as I recall it. I haven't seen it on a newsstand in ages, but it's now got a Web presence, with some sharply-written humor.

Such as this collection of wine reviews, by someone who knows well the bouquet of a fine Muscatel:

Shiraz has a bit of kick to it-a little spice. It reminds you of that romantic night in Costa Rica with Gitana Dulcinea de Esperanza. You met her at the hotel bar where she was selling dead roses and chess pieces out of a wicker bag. You danced and danced and danced. It was so wrong but it felt so right.

(Warning: Safe for work, but other pieces and video clips onsite might not be.)

The crowd at Something Awful have set in motion a funny and imaginative thread about movies played in reverse. (Warning: Language.)

Titanic:

An enormous iron ship surges up from the vast depths of the ocean in order to save a large number of people who are inexplicably, and somewhat foolishly, floundering in the water near an iceburg. It then kindly takes them back to Southampton.

The Passion Of The Christ:

A man awakens to find himself nailed to a cross without knowing how he got there, possibly after heavy drinking. Of course he is let down shortly after and the Romans tend to his wounds with a whip of +5 healing after he helped them get the cross back to storage. They parade him in front of a crowd as thanks, before re-arresting a criminal who had been mistakenly released in the man's place, despite the consternation of the crowd. He walks away with some of his friends, one of them lies about having said he didn't know him.

Sweet songstress Sarah Silverman does her bit to promote racial harmony. Or not.

Warning: Music, obviously, and NSFW language.

I confess. I didn't see this until one of his commenters picked up on it:

Sen. Kerry, a career Vietnam veteran . . .

A nice little twist of the knife from Scott Ott of Scrappleface.

Newsweek:

"Listen, I'm all for blaming things on the Jews,” said bin Laden, “but this guy went too far."

Indeed.

Wilma, Wilma, in thy blouse,
Red-haired prehistoric spouse,
What immortal animator
Was thy slender waist’s creator?

When the Rubble clan moved in,
Was Betty jealous of thy skin,
Thy noble nose, thy dimpled knee?
Did he who penciled Fred draw thee?

Wilma, Wilma, burning bright, ye
Cartoon goddess Aphrodite,
Was it Hanna or Barbera
Made thee hot as some caldera?

Some days when I can't think of a thing to write about, I hit del.icio.us's randomizing bookmarklet, which returns, as you'd guess, a random link. Usually it's something like an article on JavaScript Persistent Object Notation which doesn't exactly set my shorts on fire (though it might light yours up, so help yourself to the link).

Sometimes, though, it lands on a small gem, like this free e-book by Francis Heaney, a professional puzzle-maker and humorist.

What he did was anagrammize various authors' names and then write a poem or scene from a play in their style based on the anagram. Neat idea, but you've got to have the writing chops to carry it off.

Thus the above, the title of which was derived from the letters in "William Blake" and which parodies his most famous poem.

A contact whom I am sworn not to identify fished this remarkable document out of a Vatican wastebasket. I think it shows the struggle of the Holy Father to find the appropriate language:

My dear Muslim brothers and sisters,

I am sorry. I am sorry that you excitable morons my fellow believers in God have gotten their panties in a wad taken offence with my remarks, which were made only to see if I could make you dance like monkeys in the spirit of ecumenical outreach.

It was certainly not my intent to call into question the peaceable nature of Islam.