Minding my own business...
When a bloke with a clipboard stopped me and said "Can I ask you a question."
"You just did." I replied.
"I don't understand." He said.
"You just asked me a question by asking if you could ask me a question." I stated.
"Ahh, err..." He stammered.
"You should have said; Can I ask you a couple of questions." I said, reeling him in like a fish.
"OK then. Can I ask you a couple of questions?" He said.
"You just have." I said.
"I don't get your meaning." He replied.
"Well, you asked me if you could ask me a question and then you asked me if you could ask me a couple of questions. A couple is generally accepted to be two of something so by rights you've asked me a couple of questions. You should have said; Can I ask you a few questions." I said.
"OK, can I ask you a few questions?" He said.
"You just have." I replied, struggling not to laugh.
"I'm confused." He said.
"Well, firstly you asked me if you could ask me a question, then you asked me if you could ask me a couple of questions and you've just asked me if you could ask me a few questions. A few is generally accepted as three so by rights you've already asked me a few questions." I stated.
"Aha! Can I ask you some questions." He said, thinking he had figured out a way to ask me whatever the hell it was he wanted to know in the first place.
"No." I said. And walked away.
1/29/2008
What's so difficult?
It's not rocket science.
It's an answering machine. That's all. Just a wee machine that answers my phone when I'm not here so whomever is calling can leave a message saying that they called and could I get back in touch whenever I have a chance on whatever phone number.
So, having established these facts can someone explain to me why the hell no-one seems to be able to grasp the concept?
I got in tonight to find "You Have 16 messages" flashing on my machine and not one message to go with aforementioned messages.
Do me a favour, if you call me and get my answering machine, LEAVE A MESSAGE!
It's an answering machine. That's all. Just a wee machine that answers my phone when I'm not here so whomever is calling can leave a message saying that they called and could I get back in touch whenever I have a chance on whatever phone number.
So, having established these facts can someone explain to me why the hell no-one seems to be able to grasp the concept?
I got in tonight to find "You Have 16 messages" flashing on my machine and not one message to go with aforementioned messages.
Do me a favour, if you call me and get my answering machine, LEAVE A MESSAGE!
Back at A4E...
Jesus H Christos,
This place is doing my head in. More than usual. And that's quite an achievement when you consider how much I hate this place.
In all honesty I would be more productive at home job hunting than I am here. If it's not the computers running so slow that they make a Sinclair ZX Spectrum look like Deep Blue it's the broadband not being able to handle the amount of people checking their Bebo, Facespace or Mybook sites.
"Ho, Sandra, I've just messaged you on facespace! Gonnae check it and reply to me!"
I shrug my shoulders and shake my head wondering why it is that Coco The Cunt thinks that the Internet should be used to send someone a message when she can easily write it on a piece of paper, make a paper airplane and whip it across the room with more ease. Perhaps it's because Coco the Cunt can't spell worth a fuck and the computer does a spell check...
At the moment I'm sitting in the corridor typing away as all the chairs in the Positive Moves room are taken and this is the only place where I am relatively undisturbed. That is if you don't count the talking heads who are skiving off by claiming they need a piss or are stocking up on tea and coffee.
But that's cool, I can put up with the occasional distraction as long as I don't have to listen to Coco the Cunt telling her friend she's just filled in a Facespace application that rates her looks and she needs a friend to rate her as gorgeous.
Which, if I'm being honest, is a blatant lie. She's as attractive as a bulldog licking piss of a nettle.
This place is doing my head in. More than usual. And that's quite an achievement when you consider how much I hate this place.
In all honesty I would be more productive at home job hunting than I am here. If it's not the computers running so slow that they make a Sinclair ZX Spectrum look like Deep Blue it's the broadband not being able to handle the amount of people checking their Bebo, Facespace or Mybook sites.
"Ho, Sandra, I've just messaged you on facespace! Gonnae check it and reply to me!"
I shrug my shoulders and shake my head wondering why it is that Coco The Cunt thinks that the Internet should be used to send someone a message when she can easily write it on a piece of paper, make a paper airplane and whip it across the room with more ease. Perhaps it's because Coco the Cunt can't spell worth a fuck and the computer does a spell check...
At the moment I'm sitting in the corridor typing away as all the chairs in the Positive Moves room are taken and this is the only place where I am relatively undisturbed. That is if you don't count the talking heads who are skiving off by claiming they need a piss or are stocking up on tea and coffee.
But that's cool, I can put up with the occasional distraction as long as I don't have to listen to Coco the Cunt telling her friend she's just filled in a Facespace application that rates her looks and she needs a friend to rate her as gorgeous.
Which, if I'm being honest, is a blatant lie. She's as attractive as a bulldog licking piss of a nettle.
Be a virtual tourist...
On this site.
If you have always had a hankering to see the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House from a few thousand feet above the harbour or have wanted to see what Niagara Falls looks like I'd recommend that you do.
*The technology behind these stunning images was invented by a bloke from Edinburgh. How cool is that?
If you have always had a hankering to see the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House from a few thousand feet above the harbour or have wanted to see what Niagara Falls looks like I'd recommend that you do.
*The technology behind these stunning images was invented by a bloke from Edinburgh. How cool is that?
a4e Sucky suck suck...
Like a cheap whore on coupon day.
So I ran away, again. Like a little girl who's had her pigtails pulled one too many times and gets the fuck out so Johnny Bully can't haul her head down and hang spit balls over her. Or something like that but with a male perspective. You know what I mean so stop picking holes.
I sat for about an hour or so, basking in the reek of piss, checking for possible employers who may be looking for a highly intelligent, laid back worker to destroy their business quick style but for some strange reason I couldn't find any.
The decision to flee came when I went outside for a cigarette. The rain was tonking down good style and a couple of hundred yards away was the warmth of my sister in laws barber shop. Fuck it, I thought, I'm off to get my hair cut.
After killing a half hour or so while my sister in law cut my hair I pondered whether or not I should go back to the piss stinking hole or do one down to a coffee shop where I can surf the net without having a websense filter kick every site worth reading into touch. The coffee shop won hands down needless to say.
So I ran away, again. Like a little girl who's had her pigtails pulled one too many times and gets the fuck out so Johnny Bully can't haul her head down and hang spit balls over her. Or something like that but with a male perspective. You know what I mean so stop picking holes.
I sat for about an hour or so, basking in the reek of piss, checking for possible employers who may be looking for a highly intelligent, laid back worker to destroy their business quick style but for some strange reason I couldn't find any.
The decision to flee came when I went outside for a cigarette. The rain was tonking down good style and a couple of hundred yards away was the warmth of my sister in laws barber shop. Fuck it, I thought, I'm off to get my hair cut.
After killing a half hour or so while my sister in law cut my hair I pondered whether or not I should go back to the piss stinking hole or do one down to a coffee shop where I can surf the net without having a websense filter kick every site worth reading into touch. The coffee shop won hands down needless to say.
1/28/2008
The diary of a dream...
The TV was broadcasting static and the only sound in the room was the hissing white noise issuing from the speakers. I couldn't be sure how long I had been asleep as the numbers on the readout of my digital alarm clock kept changing, one second it was showing the time as 01:06 and the next it was showing 19:68.
I groped for the switch to the angle poise lamp at the side of my bed but found that it was missing. Not the lamp. Just the switch. “What the…” I thought, for a fraction of a second but it slid quickly from my mind. I was somewhat confused. The normal thought process was somehow liquid in its composition. My thoughts seemed to be like eels, hard to get a grip on.
My attention was dragged back to the digital readout of the alarm clock. The numbers were still unsure of what time it was supposed to be. Had I been drinking? I thought, looking around for an empty bottle. No evidence was immediately visible.
Drugs then? Once more nothing lead me to believe that I’d been on a chemical adventure. Sure, the bottle of apple juice spiked with codeine based pain killers was at my bedside where it always was but I could see I hadn’t drank any of it.
A cigarette was sitting smoking in the ashtray next to the small plastic bottle so I reached out and got a hold of it. I dragged the smoke deep into my lungs and wondered what was going on.
Had there been a power outage of some kind? A black out perhaps? Caused by the awful weather I could hear shaking the windows and buffeting the trees in the back of the house. That seemed logical, the high winds and driving rain had caused a substation somewhere to POP a fuse and the result was a TV jammed between channels and an alarm clock that didn’t know what time it was.
The walls looked strange. The flickering static beaming from the TV made them seem like they were having problems deciding what they were made of. I got the impression that if I were to reach out and try to touch them my hand would melt into the solid mass and become part of the bricks and mortar.
The TV suddenly stopped broadcasting static and instead filled the room with images of important political figures.
Jimmy Carter appeared saying something about change and progress. Maggie Thatcher appeared and said something about the future. Ronald Reagan replaced the picture of the Iron Lady and I laughed as he blew chunks onto the poor unfortunate soul at some lavish bash thrown in honour of some long forgotten cause he had been championing.
JFK appeared, with his winning smile, waving to a small crowd of onlookers, just before his head snapped backwards as a bullet smashed into his skull. The picture rewound in slow motion. The shot came again. JFK took the hit and I could smell cordite hanging in the air.
Nixon appeared chiming the word “Sacrifice” over and over and over again until I finally snapped and shouted “STOP IT!”
At which point the TV shut down with a flash of white and a phwoop noise.
The room was plunged into darkness and I reached for the lamp switch and found it was back in its usual place. I flicked it upwards and jumped as it illuminated a figure sitting on the small table in the opposite corner of the room.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.
The figure, a young looking man with a bald head, a Hawaiian shirt, Converse shoes and shorts made from an American flag, said nothing.
“I said who the fuck are you!” I questioned again.
The figure smiled a broad smile and said nothing. Reaching into a pocket he withdrew a pack of Dunhill’s, popped a cigarette into a small plastic holder and lit it with a Zippo.
“Answer me goddamn it.” I said.
The figure laughed. “Jesus man, you really ought to calm down. You’re safe enough. I’m not here to hurt you. If I was you’d be a rapidly cooling corpse on a blood soaked bed by now.” The figure said, still smiling.
“Answer me then, who are you?” I asked.
“That depends.” The figure replied.
“On what?” I asked.
“On whether you want my real name, my pseudonym or the name that most people liked to call me.” The figure replied, cryptically.
“Any and all would be good.” I said.
The figure laughed again. “Well, my real name was Hunter, my pseudonym was Duke but most people liked to call me Dr.” He said flicking his eyebrows upwards.
I realised what the figure was trying to claim. “Is that right?” I said.
“Sure is man.” The figure replied.
“I happen to know that the person you claim to be is dead.” I replied, wondering if I could find something to use as a weapon against the interloper.
“That’s true, to a certain extent.” The figure said. “But that’s not a problem in here.” He continued, motioning around with his hand.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You’re not too quick on the uptake are you? You’re dreaming. I may well be dead but dreams are different.” The figure said, matter of factly.
“And how can I be sure I’m dreaming?” I asked.
“Well, you could punch yourself in the face and see if it hurts.” The figure said with a chuckle. “Or easier still you could try to tell me what time it is.” He said pointing at the digital alarm clock.
The figures on the clock were still skipping around. 03:45, 20:06, 00:00, 09:18.
“The clock is fucked.” I said.
“This is harder than I thought it would be… OK, remember what you learned about lucid dreaming? Numbers are hard to read, things are slightly different to normal, light switches for example, thoughts are harder to grasp, reality is no longer a constant.” The figure said.
I closed my eyes and focused my mind. If this was a lucid dream I could concentrate and conjure up whatever I wanted. I felt my thoughts begin to become more solid. Opening my eyes I saw what it was I had focused my thoughts upon.
A sleek black MV Augusta F4 Senna sat where my TV was a second ago.
“Nice bike. It’s not a Vincent Black Shadow but it’s still nice.” He said.
“Man, that bike makes a Vincent look like a Vespa. That thing has more poke than a Vegas hooker, it’d leave a Vincent for dead.” I replied.
The bike popped out of existence and the figure spoke. “Listen kid, you’ve been given a chance to do something you love, grab the fucker by the throat and give it a shake. You’ll be surprised where it can take you. Don’t let them down.” He said, beginning to fade.
“Let who down?” I asked, as the figure faded totally.
“Them…” Said the disembodied voice.
I expected whomever they were to pop into existence but they didn’t.
They didn’t have to. I knew who he meant.
I groped for the switch to the angle poise lamp at the side of my bed but found that it was missing. Not the lamp. Just the switch. “What the…” I thought, for a fraction of a second but it slid quickly from my mind. I was somewhat confused. The normal thought process was somehow liquid in its composition. My thoughts seemed to be like eels, hard to get a grip on.
My attention was dragged back to the digital readout of the alarm clock. The numbers were still unsure of what time it was supposed to be. Had I been drinking? I thought, looking around for an empty bottle. No evidence was immediately visible.
Drugs then? Once more nothing lead me to believe that I’d been on a chemical adventure. Sure, the bottle of apple juice spiked with codeine based pain killers was at my bedside where it always was but I could see I hadn’t drank any of it.
A cigarette was sitting smoking in the ashtray next to the small plastic bottle so I reached out and got a hold of it. I dragged the smoke deep into my lungs and wondered what was going on.
Had there been a power outage of some kind? A black out perhaps? Caused by the awful weather I could hear shaking the windows and buffeting the trees in the back of the house. That seemed logical, the high winds and driving rain had caused a substation somewhere to POP a fuse and the result was a TV jammed between channels and an alarm clock that didn’t know what time it was.
The walls looked strange. The flickering static beaming from the TV made them seem like they were having problems deciding what they were made of. I got the impression that if I were to reach out and try to touch them my hand would melt into the solid mass and become part of the bricks and mortar.
The TV suddenly stopped broadcasting static and instead filled the room with images of important political figures.
Jimmy Carter appeared saying something about change and progress. Maggie Thatcher appeared and said something about the future. Ronald Reagan replaced the picture of the Iron Lady and I laughed as he blew chunks onto the poor unfortunate soul at some lavish bash thrown in honour of some long forgotten cause he had been championing.
JFK appeared, with his winning smile, waving to a small crowd of onlookers, just before his head snapped backwards as a bullet smashed into his skull. The picture rewound in slow motion. The shot came again. JFK took the hit and I could smell cordite hanging in the air.
Nixon appeared chiming the word “Sacrifice” over and over and over again until I finally snapped and shouted “STOP IT!”
At which point the TV shut down with a flash of white and a phwoop noise.
The room was plunged into darkness and I reached for the lamp switch and found it was back in its usual place. I flicked it upwards and jumped as it illuminated a figure sitting on the small table in the opposite corner of the room.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.
The figure, a young looking man with a bald head, a Hawaiian shirt, Converse shoes and shorts made from an American flag, said nothing.
“I said who the fuck are you!” I questioned again.
The figure smiled a broad smile and said nothing. Reaching into a pocket he withdrew a pack of Dunhill’s, popped a cigarette into a small plastic holder and lit it with a Zippo.
“Answer me goddamn it.” I said.
The figure laughed. “Jesus man, you really ought to calm down. You’re safe enough. I’m not here to hurt you. If I was you’d be a rapidly cooling corpse on a blood soaked bed by now.” The figure said, still smiling.
“Answer me then, who are you?” I asked.
“That depends.” The figure replied.
“On what?” I asked.
“On whether you want my real name, my pseudonym or the name that most people liked to call me.” The figure replied, cryptically.
“Any and all would be good.” I said.
The figure laughed again. “Well, my real name was Hunter, my pseudonym was Duke but most people liked to call me Dr.” He said flicking his eyebrows upwards.
I realised what the figure was trying to claim. “Is that right?” I said.
“Sure is man.” The figure replied.
“I happen to know that the person you claim to be is dead.” I replied, wondering if I could find something to use as a weapon against the interloper.
“That’s true, to a certain extent.” The figure said. “But that’s not a problem in here.” He continued, motioning around with his hand.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You’re not too quick on the uptake are you? You’re dreaming. I may well be dead but dreams are different.” The figure said, matter of factly.
“And how can I be sure I’m dreaming?” I asked.
“Well, you could punch yourself in the face and see if it hurts.” The figure said with a chuckle. “Or easier still you could try to tell me what time it is.” He said pointing at the digital alarm clock.
The figures on the clock were still skipping around. 03:45, 20:06, 00:00, 09:18.
“The clock is fucked.” I said.
“This is harder than I thought it would be… OK, remember what you learned about lucid dreaming? Numbers are hard to read, things are slightly different to normal, light switches for example, thoughts are harder to grasp, reality is no longer a constant.” The figure said.
I closed my eyes and focused my mind. If this was a lucid dream I could concentrate and conjure up whatever I wanted. I felt my thoughts begin to become more solid. Opening my eyes I saw what it was I had focused my thoughts upon.
A sleek black MV Augusta F4 Senna sat where my TV was a second ago.
“Nice bike. It’s not a Vincent Black Shadow but it’s still nice.” He said.
“Man, that bike makes a Vincent look like a Vespa. That thing has more poke than a Vegas hooker, it’d leave a Vincent for dead.” I replied.
The bike popped out of existence and the figure spoke. “Listen kid, you’ve been given a chance to do something you love, grab the fucker by the throat and give it a shake. You’ll be surprised where it can take you. Don’t let them down.” He said, beginning to fade.
“Let who down?” I asked, as the figure faded totally.
“Them…” Said the disembodied voice.
I expected whomever they were to pop into existence but they didn’t.
They didn’t have to. I knew who he meant.
1/24/2008
Joyous news!
I've been accepted on a creative writing course at Stevenson College in Edinburgh.
So wish me luck as I'll be a mature student soon.
So wish me luck as I'll be a mature student soon.
1/22/2008
Music reviews...
Takk - Sigur Ros.
Let Sigur Ros take your hand and guide you to where the mock turtles live, where The Mad Hatter has tea with the sleepy dormouse and where Alice found that sometimes all is not as it seems. This album conjures up images in your mind of flight across barren Icelandic wastelands where deep fissures scar the earth, sulphurous pools form and molten rock bubbles to the surface. An ambient dreamscape made real, this album is a joy to listen to and should be in everyone's collection.
Grace. Jeff Buckley.
Possibly one of the best albums ever made. Containing lapel grabbing hard rock and mind blowing moments of melodic musemanship, Grace encapsulates the dichotomy of being human and makes it into music for the soul. Anger, joy, peace, hatred and love all play their part in this album. Leaves you feeling like you have been through the whole of human expression in a second spanning a lifetime. Gone too soon, like so many who deserved to live, Jeff Buckley lives on in this album.
Smile. Brian Wilson.
Supposedly thirty years ahead of his time, Brian Wilson seems to encapsulate the sixties when surfing went global, peace and love threatened the establishment and youth threatened to take charge from the order of old an oppressive. Full of melodies similar to the beach boys, this album is better than it should ever have been. Pull on a Hawaiian shirt, buy a VW Beetle, grow your hair long and take up surfing. Brian Wilson has finally arrived in the here and now. Welcome back Brian.
The Amazing Charlatans. The Charlatans. (USA)
Acid was certainly an influence in the making of this album. And it's great that it was. Without the influence of Lysergic acid diethylamide it's easy to imagine this group singing about moonshine, chewin' tobacco, dungarees, and inter-family marriages. Thanks to Albert Hoffmann however, this album isn't a tribute to troglodytes and instead is an album that has a similar sound to early Neil Young albums tinged with a little Jefferson Airplane. Well worth listening to.
1/21/2008
I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go...
Please Leave the building by the nearest exit...
Mind the step...
Mind the step...
1/20/2008
Mondegreen inspired story...
Overlooked by Castle Ahnuddaman, the village of N'at Aindookool sat in a lush green valley where faeries, goblins, pixies and humans lived together in peace.
Cho, an apprentice wizzard sat in his favourite chair watching the sunrise over the mountaintops and wondered about the big things in life. "Why does the sun always rise over the mountain in the same place and set in the same place at the other side of the valley?", "Why are the unicorns disappearing from the magic forest?", and "What ever is that noise?"
Cho stood up and walked in the direction of the noise that had disturbed his train of thought. As he rounded the corner and entered the small square at the centre of the village, instead of the usual sight of the market place, Cho saw a large crowd gathered around a strange looking contraption that was pinging, plonking and gurgling.
"Make way for the Wizzard!" Shouted Cho, pushing through the crowd of onlookers.
"Apprentice Wizzard!" Shouted a person from the crowd. Reminding Cho that, since the tragic death of his master, his Wizzardly had training came to a halt and would never be resumed due to the laws governing the training of a wizzard.
(Royal Lore five; [subsection three, special clause two, amendment one] clearly states "Should a master Wizzard die; Be killed, accidentally scatter his particles, or be dispatched to the dungeon dimensions through the error of not knowing the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon; his apprentice shall not be trained by any other Wizzard, mage or witch.)
"I'm the best you've got..." Cho replied, with considerably more than a teaspoon of sarcasm.
"Only until you make a mistake with one of your spells!" Said another voice in the crowd. Reminding Cho, once again, that his Wizzardly training had lasted exactly four hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds when his master had mixed considerably more than a teaspoon of sulphur with the rest of the ingredients in the large cauldron and had vanished in a puff of smoke accompanied by a squelching noise.
Cho walked over to the contraption that was clanking and grinding and saw that the local blacksmith had his head inside the machine. Cho quickly grabbed the back of the blacksmith’s heavy apron and pulled him clear.
"Careful Mr Smith, that thing could have had your head off." Said Cho as he dragged Mr Smith the blacksmith backwards.
Mr Smith the blacksmith pulled off the safety glasses he was wearing and revealed two soot stained rings around his eyes. "I doubt that very much Cho, I built this machine and there is absolutely no danger whatsoever." Said Mr Smith.
Just as Mr Smith finished his sentence the contraption made a pinging noise and a large piece of metal sprung out of the machine at exactly the place where Mr Smiths head had been a few seconds previously. Had his head still been in the same place Mr Smith would have very quickly found he no longer had a need for a hat stand.
"What is it?" Cho asked.
"I call it a Carambulator." Mr Smith replied.
"And what does it do?" Cho posed.
"It's a device that allows people to go from one place to another." Mr Smith answered.
"Are legs being banned by Royal order?" Cho asked, wondering if the king had had another one of his turns and was in the process of banning something people really needed.
Mr Smith wandered off in the direction that the piece of metal that had flew out of the car had shot off in and Cho decided that as the noise had now gone he could go home and get back to his deep thinking.
Later that evening Cho was sat beside the fire when there came a knock at the door. Cho got up and walked to the door, pulled it open and found a royal messenger standing there with a scroll of paper in his hand. "A message from His Royal Highness for you Wizzard." The messenger said, handing the scroll to Cho.
Cho opened the message and read it.
"By Royal proclamation it is decided that the Wizzard Cho Senwan shall be made Royal champion and as such shall deal with the problem of the Dragon M'eye O'Laydy attacking Castle Ahnuddaman and the village N'at Aindookool. Failure shall result in the Wizzard Cho Senwan being burnt at the stake, or eaten, whichever should come first."
It said.
The Royal messenger bowed gracefully to Cho and walked backwards to where his horse had been tied to a small tree stump a few feet away. Cho sighed, knowing that the Dragon M'eye O'Laydy was trouble with a capital TROUBLE and knowing that he had only four hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds of Wizzard training to go on.
The rest of that evening Cho sat thinking how exactly he was going to kill a large and fearsome Dragons who could breathe fire and could bite a fully grown oak tree in half like it was nothing more than a matchstick. No ideas came to Cho and the more he thought the more he worried that he was going to die very soon.
The next day Cho read as many of the Wizzard books that his former master had collected before his squelchy ending. None of the books made any sense to him at all. The lack of Wizzardly knowledge was a decided handicap when it came to reading Wizzard books as they contained Wizzard words and Cho had no idea of what they meant.
The only spell that his former master had begun to teach Cho was the spell that had resulted in his masters’ squelchy demise. Fortunately Cho remembered every ingredient. Unfortunately Cho also remembered the outcome of mixing those same ingredients.
Later in the night Cho fell sleep on top of the pile of books. And dreamed.
He awoke several hours later with an idea. The spell his master had begun to teach him was the perfect thing to deal with the Dragon M'eye O'Laydy if he could find some way to get the dragon to mix together the right chemicals and add too much sulphur. And that was where the idea fell short. Dragons were not known for their ability as chemists, they were more known for their ability to breathe fire and eat people.
As Cho thought of how he could use the only spell he knew to its full potential another idea struck him. He could mix the chemicals together, with the exception of the sulphur and somehow add the sulphur later. But how?
In the end he realised that if the chemical compound was premixed and stored in a container and the sulphur was kept separate in a glass globe he could throw the container into the dragons lair. When the container struck something hard enough to break the glass globe the device would explode and the dragon would disappear as quickly as his master had.
A few weeks later Cho had managed to source all the different materials he needed for the magical container and had carefully put the device together. The next day he took his device and carried it towards the dragons’ lair. As he walked through the Town Square Mr Smith the blacksmith saw Cho and asked him what it was that he was carrying very carefully. "I call it a gone." Cho replied, "It makes things disappear very quickly."
Legend has it that Cho was successful in dispatching the evil dragon and that the king made him Wizzard to the Royal court for life. Cho married the kings’ daughter, they had many children and everyone lived happily ever after. A song was written about Cho and the dragon and to this day it is still sung...
Cho, an apprentice wizzard sat in his favourite chair watching the sunrise over the mountaintops and wondered about the big things in life. "Why does the sun always rise over the mountain in the same place and set in the same place at the other side of the valley?", "Why are the unicorns disappearing from the magic forest?", and "What ever is that noise?"
Cho stood up and walked in the direction of the noise that had disturbed his train of thought. As he rounded the corner and entered the small square at the centre of the village, instead of the usual sight of the market place, Cho saw a large crowd gathered around a strange looking contraption that was pinging, plonking and gurgling.
"Make way for the Wizzard!" Shouted Cho, pushing through the crowd of onlookers.
"Apprentice Wizzard!" Shouted a person from the crowd. Reminding Cho that, since the tragic death of his master, his Wizzardly had training came to a halt and would never be resumed due to the laws governing the training of a wizzard.
(Royal Lore five; [subsection three, special clause two, amendment one] clearly states "Should a master Wizzard die; Be killed, accidentally scatter his particles, or be dispatched to the dungeon dimensions through the error of not knowing the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon; his apprentice shall not be trained by any other Wizzard, mage or witch.)
"I'm the best you've got..." Cho replied, with considerably more than a teaspoon of sarcasm.
"Only until you make a mistake with one of your spells!" Said another voice in the crowd. Reminding Cho, once again, that his Wizzardly training had lasted exactly four hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds when his master had mixed considerably more than a teaspoon of sulphur with the rest of the ingredients in the large cauldron and had vanished in a puff of smoke accompanied by a squelching noise.
Cho walked over to the contraption that was clanking and grinding and saw that the local blacksmith had his head inside the machine. Cho quickly grabbed the back of the blacksmith’s heavy apron and pulled him clear.
"Careful Mr Smith, that thing could have had your head off." Said Cho as he dragged Mr Smith the blacksmith backwards.
Mr Smith the blacksmith pulled off the safety glasses he was wearing and revealed two soot stained rings around his eyes. "I doubt that very much Cho, I built this machine and there is absolutely no danger whatsoever." Said Mr Smith.
Just as Mr Smith finished his sentence the contraption made a pinging noise and a large piece of metal sprung out of the machine at exactly the place where Mr Smiths head had been a few seconds previously. Had his head still been in the same place Mr Smith would have very quickly found he no longer had a need for a hat stand.
"What is it?" Cho asked.
"I call it a Carambulator." Mr Smith replied.
"And what does it do?" Cho posed.
"It's a device that allows people to go from one place to another." Mr Smith answered.
"Are legs being banned by Royal order?" Cho asked, wondering if the king had had another one of his turns and was in the process of banning something people really needed.
Mr Smith wandered off in the direction that the piece of metal that had flew out of the car had shot off in and Cho decided that as the noise had now gone he could go home and get back to his deep thinking.
Later that evening Cho was sat beside the fire when there came a knock at the door. Cho got up and walked to the door, pulled it open and found a royal messenger standing there with a scroll of paper in his hand. "A message from His Royal Highness for you Wizzard." The messenger said, handing the scroll to Cho.
Cho opened the message and read it.
"By Royal proclamation it is decided that the Wizzard Cho Senwan shall be made Royal champion and as such shall deal with the problem of the Dragon M'eye O'Laydy attacking Castle Ahnuddaman and the village N'at Aindookool. Failure shall result in the Wizzard Cho Senwan being burnt at the stake, or eaten, whichever should come first."
It said.
The Royal messenger bowed gracefully to Cho and walked backwards to where his horse had been tied to a small tree stump a few feet away. Cho sighed, knowing that the Dragon M'eye O'Laydy was trouble with a capital TROUBLE and knowing that he had only four hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds of Wizzard training to go on.
The rest of that evening Cho sat thinking how exactly he was going to kill a large and fearsome Dragons who could breathe fire and could bite a fully grown oak tree in half like it was nothing more than a matchstick. No ideas came to Cho and the more he thought the more he worried that he was going to die very soon.
The next day Cho read as many of the Wizzard books that his former master had collected before his squelchy ending. None of the books made any sense to him at all. The lack of Wizzardly knowledge was a decided handicap when it came to reading Wizzard books as they contained Wizzard words and Cho had no idea of what they meant.
The only spell that his former master had begun to teach Cho was the spell that had resulted in his masters’ squelchy demise. Fortunately Cho remembered every ingredient. Unfortunately Cho also remembered the outcome of mixing those same ingredients.
Later in the night Cho fell sleep on top of the pile of books. And dreamed.
He awoke several hours later with an idea. The spell his master had begun to teach him was the perfect thing to deal with the Dragon M'eye O'Laydy if he could find some way to get the dragon to mix together the right chemicals and add too much sulphur. And that was where the idea fell short. Dragons were not known for their ability as chemists, they were more known for their ability to breathe fire and eat people.
As Cho thought of how he could use the only spell he knew to its full potential another idea struck him. He could mix the chemicals together, with the exception of the sulphur and somehow add the sulphur later. But how?
In the end he realised that if the chemical compound was premixed and stored in a container and the sulphur was kept separate in a glass globe he could throw the container into the dragons lair. When the container struck something hard enough to break the glass globe the device would explode and the dragon would disappear as quickly as his master had.
A few weeks later Cho had managed to source all the different materials he needed for the magical container and had carefully put the device together. The next day he took his device and carried it towards the dragons’ lair. As he walked through the Town Square Mr Smith the blacksmith saw Cho and asked him what it was that he was carrying very carefully. "I call it a gone." Cho replied, "It makes things disappear very quickly."
Legend has it that Cho was successful in dispatching the evil dragon and that the king made him Wizzard to the Royal court for life. Cho married the kings’ daughter, they had many children and everyone lived happily ever after. A song was written about Cho and the dragon and to this day it is still sung...
Hey Cho, where you goin with that gone in your hand
I said hey Cho, where you goin with that gone in your hand?
I'm going to down to shoo M'eye O'Laydy
You know I caught it messing aroun with Ahnuddaman
I said I'm going down to shoo M'eye O'Laydy
You know I caught it messing aroun with Ahnuddaman
And N'at Aindookool.
I said hey Cho, where you goin with that gone in your hand?
I'm going to down to shoo M'eye O'Laydy
You know I caught it messing aroun with Ahnuddaman
I said I'm going down to shoo M'eye O'Laydy
You know I caught it messing aroun with Ahnuddaman
And N'at Aindookool.
1/19/2008
You have the right to bear arms...
Or the right to arm bears...
In the US constitution it states something like "You have the right to bear arms." Which is fair enough until you look into exactly what constitutes "Arms" and give at least some consideration to exactly how high up on the evolutionary scale YOU are.
The trigger happy troupe will more than happily tell you that they have a "God given right" to buy, own and use guns. From small, sleek and sexy fit-in-your-gucci firearms to huge and horrendous handguns like Harry's favorite fucker-upper the .357 Magnum and yet more will argue that they have the right to purchase automatic armalite assassin apparatus like the type used by the military.
The problem with this is that there is no test to see if you should be allowed to own any of these highly dangerous deadly weapons. And this is sadly where the whole house of cards comes a'tumbling down.
As has been stated by many a person, some quite rational as well as the downright nuttier-than-squirrel-shit insane types, guns do not kill people, people kill people. And this is true. But on occasion people need to be protected from their own stupidity.
Take Bubba-Joe Inbred as an example. If Bubba answers the question "What's the square root of 12." with the answer "Pickle." Bubba-Joe should not be allowed a gun. And the same goes for the rest of the Our-Gene-pool-is-a-puddle-our-family-tree-is-a-stump types. These people should not be given the power over life and death.
Another group of people who should not be given any access to firearms are people who have a hatred for other races. And yes, I'm talking about the Aryan army types here, and more specifically the KKK. A deeply ingrained prejudice against anyone because of their skin colour and firearms does not a good combination make.
Yet another group of people who should be prevented from owning weapons of any kind are the fundamentalist Christians of a certain political bent... I'm looking in your direction Mr Bush... Allowing the "What God meant to say was..." lunatic fringe access to weapons capable of melting the skin from your skeleton at 100 miles is yet another recipe for disaster.
So, who in the states should have access to guns? Well, in my opinion it should be trained police officers and members of the armed forces who have proven beyond any shadow of a doubt that they are not inbred hicks, racists, God botherers or idiots. In short, none of them.
In the US constitution it states something like "You have the right to bear arms." Which is fair enough until you look into exactly what constitutes "Arms" and give at least some consideration to exactly how high up on the evolutionary scale YOU are.
The trigger happy troupe will more than happily tell you that they have a "God given right" to buy, own and use guns. From small, sleek and sexy fit-in-your-gucci firearms to huge and horrendous handguns like Harry's favorite fucker-upper the .357 Magnum and yet more will argue that they have the right to purchase automatic armalite assassin apparatus like the type used by the military.
The problem with this is that there is no test to see if you should be allowed to own any of these highly dangerous deadly weapons. And this is sadly where the whole house of cards comes a'tumbling down.
As has been stated by many a person, some quite rational as well as the downright nuttier-than-squirrel-shit insane types, guns do not kill people, people kill people. And this is true. But on occasion people need to be protected from their own stupidity.
Take Bubba-Joe Inbred as an example. If Bubba answers the question "What's the square root of 12." with the answer "Pickle." Bubba-Joe should not be allowed a gun. And the same goes for the rest of the Our-Gene-pool-is-a-puddle-our-family-tree-is-a-stump types. These people should not be given the power over life and death.
Another group of people who should not be given any access to firearms are people who have a hatred for other races. And yes, I'm talking about the Aryan army types here, and more specifically the KKK. A deeply ingrained prejudice against anyone because of their skin colour and firearms does not a good combination make.
Yet another group of people who should be prevented from owning weapons of any kind are the fundamentalist Christians of a certain political bent... I'm looking in your direction Mr Bush... Allowing the "What God meant to say was..." lunatic fringe access to weapons capable of melting the skin from your skeleton at 100 miles is yet another recipe for disaster.
So, who in the states should have access to guns? Well, in my opinion it should be trained police officers and members of the armed forces who have proven beyond any shadow of a doubt that they are not inbred hicks, racists, God botherers or idiots. In short, none of them.
1/18/2008
I have a question...
Perhaps you can answer it.
The question is; "When did we start pandering to namby pamby arseholes?"
The reason I ask is that I stumbled across this story in the online edition of the Guardian newspaper today...
Now the thing that strikes me as being a bit reactionary is the paragraph... "The ad attracted two complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority, one from the parent of a three-year-old boy who viewed it before the 9pm watershed. The other viewer complained that the ad glorified violence and gun crime."
What I'd like to know is what the fuck is a three year old doing up after 7.30? (This we know to be a fact as the story also states... "The ad for the Stranglehold game, which is rated 18+, had been cleared for broadcast after 7.30pm by Clearcast, the former Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre." Surely junior should be in the land of nod at that time and not sitting watching Satan's squawkbox.
More to the point what kind of moron is willing to complain an ad "Glorified violence and gun crime" but, and I'm guessing here, is more than likely the type to watch footage of British and American soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan shooting people on the evening news and think that that doesn't glorify violence and gun crime.
A fucking idiot that's who.
And to point out how this country has now descended into farce on a grand scale when it comes to pandering to morons I'd like to state that there are roughly 60 MILLION people in the UK.
This would mean that TWO people represents 0.0000033333333333333333 of the population.
That's not even a whole person!
The question is; "When did we start pandering to namby pamby arseholes?"
The reason I ask is that I stumbled across this story in the online edition of the Guardian newspaper today...
A TV ad for a shoot-em-up video game has been banned for "encouraging and condoning violence".
The ad for the Stranglehold game, which is rated 18+, had been cleared for broadcast after 7.30pm by Clearcast, the former Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre.
The ad showed a prolonged shoot-out between four men and the voiceover stated: "Honour is his code. Vengeance is his mission. Violence is his only option."
The ad attracted two complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority, one from the parent of a three-year-old boy who viewed it before the 9pm watershed. The other viewer complained that the ad glorified violence and gun crime.
The producer of the ad, the Picture Production Company, argued that it had edited the footage to ensure bullets were fired into mid-air and did not result in anyone being shot.
The agency said it was clear to viewers that the footage was animated gameplay and not real-life violence.
Clearcast said it approved the ad despite the violent content because the violence was stylised, unrealistic and had a fantasy quality.
Bearing in mind the lack of contact violence and absence of blood and gore, the organisation believed it was suitable for older children and could be shown after 7.30pm.
However, the ASA noted that the shooting was almost continuous and the violence, although computer-generated, appeared realistic.
The watchdog also objected to the voiceover, which it said suggested that it was honourable to seek revenge, and could therefore be seen as encouraging and condoning violence.
The ad breached the ASA's code on the clauses covering violence and cruelty as well as health and safety. The ASA ruled that the ad must be withdrawn entirely.
Last year the ASA banned an Internet ad for PlayStation 3 featuring a character armed with a knife and a gun and an ad for Electronic Arts computer game Burnout Dominator, which carried the slogan "inner peace through outer violence" and appeared on posters throughout the London Underground.
Now the thing that strikes me as being a bit reactionary is the paragraph... "The ad attracted two complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority, one from the parent of a three-year-old boy who viewed it before the 9pm watershed. The other viewer complained that the ad glorified violence and gun crime."
What I'd like to know is what the fuck is a three year old doing up after 7.30? (This we know to be a fact as the story also states... "The ad for the Stranglehold game, which is rated 18+, had been cleared for broadcast after 7.30pm by Clearcast, the former Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre." Surely junior should be in the land of nod at that time and not sitting watching Satan's squawkbox.
More to the point what kind of moron is willing to complain an ad "Glorified violence and gun crime" but, and I'm guessing here, is more than likely the type to watch footage of British and American soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan shooting people on the evening news and think that that doesn't glorify violence and gun crime.
A fucking idiot that's who.
And to point out how this country has now descended into farce on a grand scale when it comes to pandering to morons I'd like to state that there are roughly 60 MILLION people in the UK.
This would mean that TWO people represents 0.0000033333333333333333 of the population.
That's not even a whole person!
1/17/2008
After a long break...
I have once more decided to dip my toe in the waters of satire having got back into writing for thespoof.com where I shall be posting parody headlines and spoof stories as often as I can.
As regular readers of this blog I expect you all to show your support for me by winging your way to here and having a read at my spoof stories.
As regular readers of this blog I expect you all to show your support for me by winging your way to here and having a read at my spoof stories.
1/16/2008
1/13/2008
I ♥ Medicine...
One of the advantages of having a chest infection is the opportunity to make the edges of your vision blur through the ingestion of powerful cough medicines.
So today I took a wander along to the local chemist where I bought a bottle of the strongest linctus I could lay my hands on without a prescription from a Doctor. After a few questions from the pharmacist about what kind of cough I had, (My answer; Cough, Hack, Cough, Hack, Wheeze, Turn red in the face, Curse loudly, "That kind.") I was sold a bottle of Meltus for chesty coughs.
I staggered homeward and retired back to the bosom of my warm bed to attempt to knock this chest infection into touch. As I perused the directions on the box I noticed that it didn't say anything about not exceeding the dose. This I took to mean "Drink the whole damn thing."
So I popped the box open, unscrewed the cap of the bottle and knocked back the contents in one feel swoop, despite the fact that it tasted exactly like I would expect if I were to suck the toes of someone who has a very bad case of athletes foot.
Within seconds I felt the guff in my chest loosen and I hacked up a lump of grey phlegm that I could have played with like a lump of silly putty if I felt so inclined. A few minutes later, as I settled into my bed, I felt the familiar drowsy feeling normally associated with having had a couple of stiff rums.
I reread the box and noticed that the ingredients contained alcohol. "Even better, not only will this stuff knock my chest infection on the head, it'll get me tipsy." I thought as my vision began to blur slightly.
Within half an hour later I was sleeping the sleep of a baby and didn't awake until 12 hours later.
So today I took a wander along to the local chemist where I bought a bottle of the strongest linctus I could lay my hands on without a prescription from a Doctor. After a few questions from the pharmacist about what kind of cough I had, (My answer; Cough, Hack, Cough, Hack, Wheeze, Turn red in the face, Curse loudly, "That kind.") I was sold a bottle of Meltus for chesty coughs.
I staggered homeward and retired back to the bosom of my warm bed to attempt to knock this chest infection into touch. As I perused the directions on the box I noticed that it didn't say anything about not exceeding the dose. This I took to mean "Drink the whole damn thing."
So I popped the box open, unscrewed the cap of the bottle and knocked back the contents in one feel swoop, despite the fact that it tasted exactly like I would expect if I were to suck the toes of someone who has a very bad case of athletes foot.
Within seconds I felt the guff in my chest loosen and I hacked up a lump of grey phlegm that I could have played with like a lump of silly putty if I felt so inclined. A few minutes later, as I settled into my bed, I felt the familiar drowsy feeling normally associated with having had a couple of stiff rums.
I reread the box and noticed that the ingredients contained alcohol. "Even better, not only will this stuff knock my chest infection on the head, it'll get me tipsy." I thought as my vision began to blur slightly.
Within half an hour later I was sleeping the sleep of a baby and didn't awake until 12 hours later.
1/11/2008
Every year it's the same...
Around about the time the weather in Scotland turns cold my chest decides that I don't appreciate the ability to breathe as much as I should and gives me a stinking chest infection.
Green lumps of phlegm are lodged in the top of my lungs, my chest begins to feel like someone has set about it with a brillo pad and industrial bleach, the hair on my head hurts, I daren't shave, my head pounds like I'd been out on the randan and I'm sweating like an inexperienced drug mule on his way through customs with enough illegal drugs up his jacksie to make Amy Winehouse, Pete Docherty and Courtney Love pass out through sheer joy.
At these times it is best for all if I do not venture out the house as my patience is seriously limited and I am easily annoyed. So for today, and the rest of the weekend, I shall be taking to my bed with a bottle of cough mixture and a bucket to hawk my lugies into.
*Update*
It's now a good twelve hours later... My joints have begun to ache like I am a 70 year old man, my voice is starting to sound like I have no voicebox and the normally amazing Dr Solpadeine isn't having the effect I had hoped for.
Green lumps of phlegm are lodged in the top of my lungs, my chest begins to feel like someone has set about it with a brillo pad and industrial bleach, the hair on my head hurts, I daren't shave, my head pounds like I'd been out on the randan and I'm sweating like an inexperienced drug mule on his way through customs with enough illegal drugs up his jacksie to make Amy Winehouse, Pete Docherty and Courtney Love pass out through sheer joy.
At these times it is best for all if I do not venture out the house as my patience is seriously limited and I am easily annoyed. So for today, and the rest of the weekend, I shall be taking to my bed with a bottle of cough mixture and a bucket to hawk my lugies into.
*Update*
It's now a good twelve hours later... My joints have begun to ache like I am a 70 year old man, my voice is starting to sound like I have no voicebox and the normally amazing Dr Solpadeine isn't having the effect I had hoped for.
1/08/2008
Welcome to the world...
Prepare to be politicized...
So, you're born as free as the birds, without prejudice or any preconceived notions about life. Then one day you realise that you, for no good reason, are pwned.
Sure, you deny it with the core of your being, you rail against this statement, but one day you'll wake up and realise that you, my friend are being bought and sold down the river day after day after day after day after day.
"But I'm not a slave!" You shout into the void, but, like it or not you are...
A commodity to the collective consciousness of corporations;
You are;
Owned by the overlords of oppression;
You are;
A national insurance number;
You are;
A social security number;
You are...
A bank account;
A credit card;
And a wage slave.
In short you are nothing more than a bag of blood to the leeches who suck you dry day by day by day...
So, what do you do? Do you bow down to the boss? Or do you take arms and fight? Well, generally you do neither. You do what we all do, you find your comfort level & fit in. You swallow your pride and get along.
And why do you do this? Because it is the easy way. Like lightning, seeking to ground itself, you take the path of least resistance because to go by any other way would be too much trouble.
And you can bet your last banana that Trouble with a capital T would rain upon you lie a force ten hurricane if you try to fight it...
Some people, however, will not take the path more travelled. Why? Because their soul; Their Spirit; Their Essence; Their Sotto Voce; Their God; Their Grand Whazoo will not allow them to.
Should they try to ignore The Guiding Voice it will ensure the noise gets;
Louder
& Louder
& Louder
& Louder
& Louder
Until ALL they can hear is The Voice...
Few people manage to listen to The Voice for long. And those who think they can ignore it for any length of time invariably SNAP and find themselves shunned by the very society they seek to change.
The ones who have fine timing, and accept The Voice at the time when it needs to be heard, become Gods amongst men.
Their Image is Icon;
Their Memory is Monument;
Their Spirit is Statue;
And their words become weapons in the war against oppression.
So, you're born as free as the birds, without prejudice or any preconceived notions about life. Then one day you realise that you, for no good reason, are pwned.
Sure, you deny it with the core of your being, you rail against this statement, but one day you'll wake up and realise that you, my friend are being bought and sold down the river day after day after day after day after day.
"But I'm not a slave!" You shout into the void, but, like it or not you are...
A commodity to the collective consciousness of corporations;
You are;
Owned by the overlords of oppression;
You are;
A national insurance number;
You are;
A social security number;
You are...
A bank account;
A credit card;
And a wage slave.
In short you are nothing more than a bag of blood to the leeches who suck you dry day by day by day...
So, what do you do? Do you bow down to the boss? Or do you take arms and fight? Well, generally you do neither. You do what we all do, you find your comfort level & fit in. You swallow your pride and get along.
And why do you do this? Because it is the easy way. Like lightning, seeking to ground itself, you take the path of least resistance because to go by any other way would be too much trouble.
And you can bet your last banana that Trouble with a capital T would rain upon you lie a force ten hurricane if you try to fight it...
Some people, however, will not take the path more travelled. Why? Because their soul; Their Spirit; Their Essence; Their Sotto Voce; Their God; Their Grand Whazoo will not allow them to.
Should they try to ignore The Guiding Voice it will ensure the noise gets;
Louder
& Louder
& Louder
& Louder
& Louder
Until ALL they can hear is The Voice...
Few people manage to listen to The Voice for long. And those who think they can ignore it for any length of time invariably SNAP and find themselves shunned by the very society they seek to change.
The ones who have fine timing, and accept The Voice at the time when it needs to be heard, become Gods amongst men.
Their Image is Icon;
Their Memory is Monument;
Their Spirit is Statue;
And their words become weapons in the war against oppression.
*************************
"The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people.” - Martin Luther King Jr.
"The worst government is the most moral. One composed of cynics is often very tolerant and humane. But when fanatics are on top there is no limit to oppression." - H. L. Mencken.
"Power in defense of freedom is greater than power in behalf of tyranny and oppression.”- Malcolm X.
"If a man wishes to rid himself of a feeling of unbearable oppression, he may have to take hashish." - Friedrich Nietzsche.
"Anger Is An Energy." - John Lydon.
"You gotta fight, for your right, To PARTY!" - The Beastie Boys.
"The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people.” - Martin Luther King Jr.
"The worst government is the most moral. One composed of cynics is often very tolerant and humane. But when fanatics are on top there is no limit to oppression." - H. L. Mencken.
"Power in defense of freedom is greater than power in behalf of tyranny and oppression.”- Malcolm X.
"If a man wishes to rid himself of a feeling of unbearable oppression, he may have to take hashish." - Friedrich Nietzsche.
"Anger Is An Energy." - John Lydon.
"You gotta fight, for your right, To PARTY!" - The Beastie Boys.
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