I haven't had a lot to say of late but man, I have to get this down. This is priceless.
I'm out walking the Boys, as I do every night and as I approach the top of the hill where lies a junction (intersection to Yanks and Aussies) I hear the noise typically associated with people having a good time. In other words, drunk. Drunks concern me. Drunks can be erratic and unpredictable.
So my ears pricked up so to speak (read on...) and I prepared to call the Boys to me lest they aggravate the inebriated.
I needed have worried as it becomes clear that the noisemakers were 4 girls in their 20s I'd guess. Girls go all gooey over the Boys so I relaxed a bit.
Now here's were it gets surreal:
Two of these young ladies were topless; strolling down the middle of the road drunk as you like and making a fair racket.
Then I hear, "There's someone coming" and the girl on the left of the pack covers her chest with her top - doesn't put it on - just covers. But the other exhibitionist has no such shame and proudly stands there calling at me with her hands in the air displaying her...wares, lets call it (or should that be "them"). And asking me, "Do you think these are sexy?" (Oh man, as I say, priceless hoho).
So me being the gentleman I am, keep my distance and continue to walk, not wanting to do what a man would do when faced with a naked woman in the street, and stare lasciviously. (I had to look, though - it's rude to ignore people).
Enter the Boys in this little tale. They decide to sod of down this small walkway after God knows what, leaving me standing there with this girl loudly asking me these questions concerning the sexiness of her shape.
So I must reply, in between Shouts of "Boys!" I return with noncommittal remarks like, "not bad" and "yeah it's alright". And, "you've scared my dogs off". All said in good humour. (Christ, what else could I say?).
Surreal, huh?
But wait, there's more:
This chick then bends over and drops her (shorts or miniskirt - can't remember, I was understandably distracted...) and stands up completely buck naked but for a pair of briefs (fairly unflattering ones I might add - I neglected to mention that to the girl...).
And begins to, well, "jiggle" would describe what happened next.
Her friends, including the other topless one now sitting on the kerb holding her top to her chest and feeling I would imagine, a little sheepish, were attempting to curtail their friend's demonstration.
Eventually the Boys returned and I carried on my merry, yet mildly astonished way.
This is where I live.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
LET'S SEE YOUR BASTARD CAT DO THAT!!!!
One Alsatian dog. It's master.
Heard on the radio; details unknown as far as where - was listening to the heroics.
But in essence:
Jim, I think that was his name, and his trusty Alsatian, name not given, were in each others' company when Jim collapsed, suffering a heart attack.
...need a name for the dog, answers on a postcard. For now we'll call it Spike.
Upon witnessing his master's collapse Spike sprang onto Jim's chest and proceeded to make a commotion, in order to keep Jim conscious.
Spike then ran outside and by indulging in more of that commotion stuff, attracted the attention of someone, a passer-by presumably, and led him into the house to where Jim lay, all but dead.
Jim's now doing well, having survived the near death experience. One would presume Spike is still by his side.
'Tis a beautiful story and only the darkest heart would fail to be warmed after hearing it.
THE fundamental difference between dog and cat.
Some would cite dogs as easily browbeaten, the eternal pleasers, insinuating that this was an undesireable trait. I would counter - this animal was not beaten, this was...a dog and his master, his companion, his friend.
And seeing his friend in need, leapt into action. First by trying to keep the man cognizant, then by going for help.
Cats would probably see the chest as a nice place to sit, that's if they even noticed, and if so, that's after coming out from behind the sofa after scarpering in cowardly fright when Jim hit the floor.
I remind you that I would still never do any animal, cats included, any intentional harm, and in fact would, and have leapt to their defence as Spike did for Jim.
However, cats are the epitome of narc
Heard on the radio; details unknown as far as where - was listening to the heroics.
But in essence:
Jim, I think that was his name, and his trusty Alsatian, name not given, were in each others' company when Jim collapsed, suffering a heart attack.
...need a name for the dog, answers on a postcard. For now we'll call it Spike.
Upon witnessing his master's collapse Spike sprang onto Jim's chest and proceeded to make a commotion, in order to keep Jim conscious.
Spike then ran outside and by indulging in more of that commotion stuff, attracted the attention of someone, a passer-by presumably, and led him into the house to where Jim lay, all but dead.
Jim's now doing well, having survived the near death experience. One would presume Spike is still by his side.
'Tis a beautiful story and only the darkest heart would fail to be warmed after hearing it.
THE fundamental difference between dog and cat.
Some would cite dogs as easily browbeaten, the eternal pleasers, insinuating that this was an undesireable trait. I would counter - this animal was not beaten, this was...a dog and his master, his companion, his friend.
And seeing his friend in need, leapt into action. First by trying to keep the man cognizant, then by going for help.
Cats would probably see the chest as a nice place to sit, that's if they even noticed, and if so, that's after coming out from behind the sofa after scarpering in cowardly fright when Jim hit the floor.
I remind you that I would still never do any animal, cats included, any intentional harm, and in fact would, and have leapt to their defence as Spike did for Jim.
However, cats are the epitome of narc
Friday, October 09, 2009
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
WHERE'S MY PHONE
I saw a report on the TV news today concerning sniffer dogs, and their being trained to locate mobile phones in prisons.
They detect the lithium in the batteries.
How handy would that be, eh???
(Boys! First one to find my phone gets a Schmacko).
Love to see bastard cats do that!
They detect the lithium in the batteries.
How handy would that be, eh???
(Boys! First one to find my phone gets a Schmacko).
Love to see bastard cats do that!
ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELVES KILLED??
First we have some wee girl, a slip of a thing of sweet sixteen, setting off on a warm-up trial run for her lauded round the world trip, running into a sixty thousand ton cargo vessel, comparable in size to an oil-moving supertanker. What, didn't you see it???
Christ! Her boat was...yep, pink!
Sounds like it was the same wee girl who whilst chatting on her phone to her bestest friend, slammed into Scoob way back when (he's in great shape by the way - recovered completely...)
Then we have this, well I can't decide whether it's this slimy fuck, or retard, Greg fuckin Combay who has suggested females be allowed into Commando units in the army. Even going so far as to suggest the SAS. The SAS? What!!!!!
It must be the slimy option. Surely no-one in their right fucking mind would...a. seriously entertain females on the front line, and...b. allow them to fail at SAS selection, because fail they would.
So much more to say on these but no time now.
Christ! Her boat was...yep, pink!
Sounds like it was the same wee girl who whilst chatting on her phone to her bestest friend, slammed into Scoob way back when (he's in great shape by the way - recovered completely...)
Then we have this, well I can't decide whether it's this slimy fuck, or retard, Greg fuckin Combay who has suggested females be allowed into Commando units in the army. Even going so far as to suggest the SAS. The SAS? What!!!!!
It must be the slimy option. Surely no-one in their right fucking mind would...a. seriously entertain females on the front line, and...b. allow them to fail at SAS selection, because fail they would.
So much more to say on these but no time now.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT'S DUE
I was in the supermarket again today (as one does) and was checking the egg section to see if the McGrath cage eggs were still there.
It seems they've been removed and replaced with barn/cage free eggs.
So bravo to the Foundation. I'll buy your eggs now.
But still, enough with the pink League uniforms.
It seems they've been removed and replaced with barn/cage free eggs.
So bravo to the Foundation. I'll buy your eggs now.
But still, enough with the pink League uniforms.
Friday, August 14, 2009
MUST BE A GREG THING
We all remember that cowardly invertebrate, Greg Bird, he of the glassing incident. For those who don't, a quick recap:
Greg Bird, the one-time hero league player (those two words alone should tell you where this is going - to some offensive act of a retard), who was idolised by thousands, men and women alike.
Such idolatry reached its zenith when Birds girlfriend refused to press charges after he smashed a glass in her face (what is it with you chicks, man? Seriously, what are you thinking???).
For his part, Bird attempted to avoid the charge by claiming a friend committed the act, only to be refuted at a later stage. The spineless git now plays for a French side (in France obviously). I only hope if and when he returns to Oz no-one ever lets him forget what he did.
Anyway, so, there you have it. Bird the coward; the woman beater. His mother must be sooo proud.
Enter Greg #2.
This namesake's surname is Inglis and Inglis, like Bird, is another "superstar" of league, again idolized by fans of both sex and all ages, including kids. "Mummy, why is my hero hitting his girlfriend? Is it okay to do that then?"
Inglis has just recently been accused of giving HIS girlfriend a shiner or two. Shiners can only be caused by either something hitting the eye hard or the eye hitting something (think the ubiquitous "walking into a door", an explanation used often to explain such an eye by those to embarrassed to admit the truth).
In this particular case, the victim/girlfriend has come out to say, no, Greg didn't hit me, I was attempting self harm and he was trying to stop me. Oh, and by the way, I'm no longer his girlfriend".
Cue girlfriend #2
A girl, who fancies her own taste of fame at whatever cost, has chirped up now claiming she in fact is now Inglis's bint.
It's all getting very tawdry and would be funny where it not for the fact that an act of violence from a weak, weak excuse for a man has started it all.
Leaguesters eh? Pure class all the way!
Greg Bird, the one-time hero league player (those two words alone should tell you where this is going - to some offensive act of a retard), who was idolised by thousands, men and women alike.
Such idolatry reached its zenith when Birds girlfriend refused to press charges after he smashed a glass in her face (what is it with you chicks, man? Seriously, what are you thinking???).
For his part, Bird attempted to avoid the charge by claiming a friend committed the act, only to be refuted at a later stage. The spineless git now plays for a French side (in France obviously). I only hope if and when he returns to Oz no-one ever lets him forget what he did.
Anyway, so, there you have it. Bird the coward; the woman beater. His mother must be sooo proud.
Enter Greg #2.
This namesake's surname is Inglis and Inglis, like Bird, is another "superstar" of league, again idolized by fans of both sex and all ages, including kids. "Mummy, why is my hero hitting his girlfriend? Is it okay to do that then?"
Inglis has just recently been accused of giving HIS girlfriend a shiner or two. Shiners can only be caused by either something hitting the eye hard or the eye hitting something (think the ubiquitous "walking into a door", an explanation used often to explain such an eye by those to embarrassed to admit the truth).
In this particular case, the victim/girlfriend has come out to say, no, Greg didn't hit me, I was attempting self harm and he was trying to stop me. Oh, and by the way, I'm no longer his girlfriend".
Cue girlfriend #2
A girl, who fancies her own taste of fame at whatever cost, has chirped up now claiming she in fact is now Inglis's bint.
It's all getting very tawdry and would be funny where it not for the fact that an act of violence from a weak, weak excuse for a man has started it all.
Leaguesters eh? Pure class all the way!
DON'T YOU JUST HATE THAT...
When you've just spent a wad of dough unnecessarily?
Mutters (currently also known as Hopalong on account of his being unable to put any weight on the wounded paw) returned from one of his forays the other day with a significant slice out of one of the pads on his front left paw.
Right away Dr Doolittle (that would be moi) diagnosed broken glass as the likely culprit (fuckin' wee pisshead bastards breaking their bottles out in the bush!)
A deep slash leaving a thick sliver of flesh exposed with the other part separated flapping in the wind almost. So the professor (that's me too) got to inspecting the damage close up and discovered that if the "flapping" piece was simply pushed in its natural direction it settled into the gap perfectly.
And immediately remembered the time when I very nearly lost a finger due to an argument with a vicious dropsaw (I consider it a draw as I still have a fully operational finger). In that occasion also, I discovered that when I simply held the sides of the 35 millimetre slash together, they fit like the proverbial glove (Note: human flesh, before the blood gets to the area to do its work, is uncannily like cooked pork, i.e white - then the blood catches up and everything goes crimson...). So I pinched the sides together, slathered antiseptic cream, (the human equivalent of dog saliva) on it, wrapped it in a piece of toilet roll, and taped it up with masking tape. Changed the dressing twice daily and hey presto! Job done. Just a nice scar left.
Anyway, back to Mutters: As I said, push the flap back and do the same. Unfortunately for reasons known only to myself, I left it for 3 days before "operating" and the flap had become more wayward. I also had concerns about possible infection though on subsequent inspection the wound, by virtue of the aforementioned saliva, was clean.
Nevertheless, hesitate and you're lost as the saying goes and I felt I'd perhaps missed my window so off to the vet I went.
Who proceeded to do exactly as I have written, that is, to push the flap back into place and wrap the entire paw in a tight (ish) bandage and give him an antibiotic with a course of five days' worth to go.
Then about 3 minutes later - charged me like an infuriated bull. Kerching!!
Now I'm thinking, as I look at my empty wallet, I should have had more faith in myself.
Yep. I hate that!
I'm also reminded as I watch my wee man hopping along three-legged, of my contention that we all could learn something from animals with injuries, dogs especially. Not a whimper; not a whine, just a get on with it attitude. Us? We'd be bawling our bloody eyes out. "Boo hoo, I'm so sore/sad/upset".
Mutters (currently also known as Hopalong on account of his being unable to put any weight on the wounded paw) returned from one of his forays the other day with a significant slice out of one of the pads on his front left paw.
Right away Dr Doolittle (that would be moi) diagnosed broken glass as the likely culprit (fuckin' wee pisshead bastards breaking their bottles out in the bush!)
A deep slash leaving a thick sliver of flesh exposed with the other part separated flapping in the wind almost. So the professor (that's me too) got to inspecting the damage close up and discovered that if the "flapping" piece was simply pushed in its natural direction it settled into the gap perfectly.
And immediately remembered the time when I very nearly lost a finger due to an argument with a vicious dropsaw (I consider it a draw as I still have a fully operational finger). In that occasion also, I discovered that when I simply held the sides of the 35 millimetre slash together, they fit like the proverbial glove (Note: human flesh, before the blood gets to the area to do its work, is uncannily like cooked pork, i.e white - then the blood catches up and everything goes crimson...). So I pinched the sides together, slathered antiseptic cream, (the human equivalent of dog saliva) on it, wrapped it in a piece of toilet roll, and taped it up with masking tape. Changed the dressing twice daily and hey presto! Job done. Just a nice scar left.
Anyway, back to Mutters: As I said, push the flap back and do the same. Unfortunately for reasons known only to myself, I left it for 3 days before "operating" and the flap had become more wayward. I also had concerns about possible infection though on subsequent inspection the wound, by virtue of the aforementioned saliva, was clean.
Nevertheless, hesitate and you're lost as the saying goes and I felt I'd perhaps missed my window so off to the vet I went.
Who proceeded to do exactly as I have written, that is, to push the flap back into place and wrap the entire paw in a tight (ish) bandage and give him an antibiotic with a course of five days' worth to go.
Then about 3 minutes later - charged me like an infuriated bull. Kerching!!
Now I'm thinking, as I look at my empty wallet, I should have had more faith in myself.
Yep. I hate that!
I'm also reminded as I watch my wee man hopping along three-legged, of my contention that we all could learn something from animals with injuries, dogs especially. Not a whimper; not a whine, just a get on with it attitude. Us? We'd be bawling our bloody eyes out. "Boo hoo, I'm so sore/sad/upset".
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A SHAM OR NOT A SHAM
By now everyone in the English speaking world will have heard the name Jamie Neale.
In case you've been living under the proverbial rock, he's the 19 year old British backpacker who recently emerged after 12 days lost in the Australian bush in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney.
The SES, Police, and volunteers scoured the mountainous bush searching for him only to discover after the 12 days he walked into a fellow bushwalkers camp, for all intents and purposes unharmed.
Rejoice! As one could imagine. The would-be prodigal's father flew from England and joined the search, going as far as scratching his son's name on some rocks in an area his boy was assumed to have been.
The media, like vultures, leapt at the story, quoting words like miraculous, amazing, astounding - and currently is in its final throes. Lost walker found; congrats all round, slaps on back; media interest and offers for exclusive.
The TV images of the boy, I'd have to say were of a...well, normal boy with red nostrils. Thin, but not gaunt; pale, but not in any fashion emaciated. Wide-eyed, and a bit reserved but not traumatized into speechlessness.
In short, arguably not what one would expect from starving for 12 days and having to resort to eating berries.
Frankly I hadn't much more interest in this tale than I had in the recent bombings. But as the media had it shoved down my throat with its half-hourly reports, I found myself unable to not ruminate over the reported story and its facts.
One of which is the recent emergence of a certain 200,000 dollars offered by 60 Minutes for the exclusive. Which the chap took, with the assurance to give "most" of it to the volunteers. (The initial reported offer, one day after, was 60,000, all of which apparently was going to the 'teers).
The same day another report surfaced regarding the lad's competing in an eating contest which saw him down four large pizzas in an hour, the night before he set off on his hike. That's a significant amount of fuel, I mean, four large pizzas. That could effectively last a body between 5 days and a week. Yes, one would feel hunger, but there would still be plenty of "fuel" to run the engine for that approximate length of time. The following 5 days could be accounted for with, say 3-5 days worth of chocolate bars. After the gluttony, 1 bar per 24 hours would suffice - for, though admittedly not indefinitely, a period of 5-7 days at least.
Also, water is plentiful in the mountains.
That's it - that's all would be required. Then after the requisite amount of time, in this case 12 days, you just walk into a camp, look exhausted and let the rescuers do their thing.
So gorge yourself before leaving, bring along several bars of high energy food (chocolate, it has to be chocolate) and off you go. That's how I'd do it. Then hang out in the bush for a while conserving your energy, snacking on the chocolate, drinking stream water.
Wait til you've had enough and look appropriately grubby, the saunter into a bush walker's camp.
Couple of nights in the hospital, statement for the media, story offer.
Kerching!
In case you've been living under the proverbial rock, he's the 19 year old British backpacker who recently emerged after 12 days lost in the Australian bush in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney.
The SES, Police, and volunteers scoured the mountainous bush searching for him only to discover after the 12 days he walked into a fellow bushwalkers camp, for all intents and purposes unharmed.
Rejoice! As one could imagine. The would-be prodigal's father flew from England and joined the search, going as far as scratching his son's name on some rocks in an area his boy was assumed to have been.
The media, like vultures, leapt at the story, quoting words like miraculous, amazing, astounding - and currently is in its final throes. Lost walker found; congrats all round, slaps on back; media interest and offers for exclusive.
The TV images of the boy, I'd have to say were of a...well, normal boy with red nostrils. Thin, but not gaunt; pale, but not in any fashion emaciated. Wide-eyed, and a bit reserved but not traumatized into speechlessness.
In short, arguably not what one would expect from starving for 12 days and having to resort to eating berries.
Frankly I hadn't much more interest in this tale than I had in the recent bombings. But as the media had it shoved down my throat with its half-hourly reports, I found myself unable to not ruminate over the reported story and its facts.
One of which is the recent emergence of a certain 200,000 dollars offered by 60 Minutes for the exclusive. Which the chap took, with the assurance to give "most" of it to the volunteers. (The initial reported offer, one day after, was 60,000, all of which apparently was going to the 'teers).
The same day another report surfaced regarding the lad's competing in an eating contest which saw him down four large pizzas in an hour, the night before he set off on his hike. That's a significant amount of fuel, I mean, four large pizzas. That could effectively last a body between 5 days and a week. Yes, one would feel hunger, but there would still be plenty of "fuel" to run the engine for that approximate length of time. The following 5 days could be accounted for with, say 3-5 days worth of chocolate bars. After the gluttony, 1 bar per 24 hours would suffice - for, though admittedly not indefinitely, a period of 5-7 days at least.
Also, water is plentiful in the mountains.
That's it - that's all would be required. Then after the requisite amount of time, in this case 12 days, you just walk into a camp, look exhausted and let the rescuers do their thing.
So gorge yourself before leaving, bring along several bars of high energy food (chocolate, it has to be chocolate) and off you go. That's how I'd do it. Then hang out in the bush for a while conserving your energy, snacking on the chocolate, drinking stream water.
Wait til you've had enough and look appropriately grubby, the saunter into a bush walker's camp.
Couple of nights in the hospital, statement for the media, story offer.
Kerching!
DEVILS ELIXIR
Aka: Grog...Piss...Booze.
On a radio show today, the host was conducting a segment on the proposed outlawing of alcohol advertising in sports.
There was much hand-wringing of course, though any sanctimony was thankfully absent, replaced instead with a stoic professionalism - fabricated of course.
Nevertheless, the predominant leaning was towards the shaking of the head, the "what can we do?" syndrome.
Present on the show were the two men; the presenter and an industry product representative.
Playing the sycophantic advocate first, the presenter started with the veiled accusation that alcohol management had indeed reached an out of control stage and that its promotion through every sporting event was simply an exacerbation.
The rep responded as if reading from an industry guide on preselected cliched responses.
"Inappropriate behaviour..."
"wont be tolerated..."
"we support responsible comsumption..."
et al, et al...
He goes on...
We supply the small regional clubs with revenue, in turn keeping people in work, supporting the youth, developing them to the top rung of the sport. If alcohol advertising in sport is banned, the "bush" will suffer. (This a veiled threat of his own).
So on they parried; "Isn't it the case that...?", "No, we are committed to..." a choreography in formal appropriateness. And earning the station a substantial revenue.
Meanwhile those who embrace the "buy one get one free" sales pitch continue to purchase gallons of piss, proceed to tip it down their addled throats and drunkenly stumble through life acting like league players.
Everybody gets their cut, condemns it, again, and lets it slip from public interest until the next time, which historically, is never far away.
The thing is, (that the various protagonists are fond of sweeping under the carpet) alcohol is a moneyspinner for all.
It is a mutli-trillion dollar business - in global terms, not just here in Oz. From those who manufacture it, including those who gather/grow the ingredients to those who sell it at the counter, and at each stage in between, everyone takes their percentage.
Including the radio station and its talent, who duplicitously camouflage this with the facade of "giving the public a voice".
The fact is, each and every presenter of mainstream radio follow an agenda set by their employers, themselves driven predominately by political preference.
So in fact, a given presenter can rarely if ever be trusted to give their honest opinion - unless said opinion concurs with that of his/her employer.
The whole thing is driven by the need to earn revenue and the God's honest truth rarely, if ever enters into it.
And this...is why alcohol abuse will, much like climate change has become, be one endless talkfest with the odd tax grab thrown in to help swallow the bitter pill.
On a radio show today, the host was conducting a segment on the proposed outlawing of alcohol advertising in sports.
There was much hand-wringing of course, though any sanctimony was thankfully absent, replaced instead with a stoic professionalism - fabricated of course.
Nevertheless, the predominant leaning was towards the shaking of the head, the "what can we do?" syndrome.
Present on the show were the two men; the presenter and an industry product representative.
Playing the sycophantic advocate first, the presenter started with the veiled accusation that alcohol management had indeed reached an out of control stage and that its promotion through every sporting event was simply an exacerbation.
The rep responded as if reading from an industry guide on preselected cliched responses.
"Inappropriate behaviour..."
"wont be tolerated..."
"we support responsible comsumption..."
et al, et al...
He goes on...
We supply the small regional clubs with revenue, in turn keeping people in work, supporting the youth, developing them to the top rung of the sport. If alcohol advertising in sport is banned, the "bush" will suffer. (This a veiled threat of his own).
So on they parried; "Isn't it the case that...?", "No, we are committed to..." a choreography in formal appropriateness. And earning the station a substantial revenue.
Meanwhile those who embrace the "buy one get one free" sales pitch continue to purchase gallons of piss, proceed to tip it down their addled throats and drunkenly stumble through life acting like league players.
Everybody gets their cut, condemns it, again, and lets it slip from public interest until the next time, which historically, is never far away.
The thing is, (that the various protagonists are fond of sweeping under the carpet) alcohol is a moneyspinner for all.
It is a mutli-trillion dollar business - in global terms, not just here in Oz. From those who manufacture it, including those who gather/grow the ingredients to those who sell it at the counter, and at each stage in between, everyone takes their percentage.
Including the radio station and its talent, who duplicitously camouflage this with the facade of "giving the public a voice".
The fact is, each and every presenter of mainstream radio follow an agenda set by their employers, themselves driven predominately by political preference.
So in fact, a given presenter can rarely if ever be trusted to give their honest opinion - unless said opinion concurs with that of his/her employer.
The whole thing is driven by the need to earn revenue and the God's honest truth rarely, if ever enters into it.
And this...is why alcohol abuse will, much like climate change has become, be one endless talkfest with the odd tax grab thrown in to help swallow the bitter pill.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
ANTICHRIST DOING THE ROUNDS AGAIN
We of course by now all know to whom I refer. Al Gore.
Well, he's travelling the globe again, in the obligatory jet plane depositing more pollution than I, for example, will ever leave. Presumably Mrs Gore remains in the McMansion burning the midnight oil (which, to repeat, uses more power in one single month than the average American home does in an entire year!)
There is zero point at this juncture in the rollercoaster that climate change has become in entering into debate, especially when one considers the multitudes of retards who have fallen for Gore's propaganda.
And while these retards comprise about 50% of society the world over, that fortunately means there is 50% who don't subscribe.
Unfortunately, as previously alluded to, the whole thing is now a self-perpetuating leviathan and those who drive it have all the power. (World leaders et al).
Which sucks a bit.
However, on the positive side, it would appear that those who are attending the current "trough" (free holiday, plane rides, hotel accommodation, self-congratulatory slaps on backs all round...) aren't very enthusiastic about any agreement being reached. Probably, almost certainly because the draconian measures suggested are going to cost the various protagonists not a little amount in terms of loss of jobs, industry etc.
A few home truths about climate change ("global warming's been consigned to the redundant bin...).
It was raining here in Oz yesterday. Today it's sunny. That...is climate change.
With a population of 6 1/2 billion and counting, there is no way we're NOT going to have an effect on our world, especially when we seem intent on ripping up forests like they've been deemed illegal. Vegetation is the planet's lungs and if the lung capacity of an organism is reduced, the ability of that lung to work is also diminished. In this case, the extra CO2 that 6 billion people do produce is not processed and released back into the atmosphere as life-giving oxygen. Vegetation, as I'm sure you know, thrives on CO2 like we do on oxygen.
So do not listen to anything that charlatan has to say for his agenda has nothing to do with saving the planet. Just a way of cementing his name in the annals of history.
Word of caution though, Adolf Hitler's name is well ensconced in the same history.
Well, he's travelling the globe again, in the obligatory jet plane depositing more pollution than I, for example, will ever leave. Presumably Mrs Gore remains in the McMansion burning the midnight oil (which, to repeat, uses more power in one single month than the average American home does in an entire year!)
There is zero point at this juncture in the rollercoaster that climate change has become in entering into debate, especially when one considers the multitudes of retards who have fallen for Gore's propaganda.
And while these retards comprise about 50% of society the world over, that fortunately means there is 50% who don't subscribe.
Unfortunately, as previously alluded to, the whole thing is now a self-perpetuating leviathan and those who drive it have all the power. (World leaders et al).
Which sucks a bit.
However, on the positive side, it would appear that those who are attending the current "trough" (free holiday, plane rides, hotel accommodation, self-congratulatory slaps on backs all round...) aren't very enthusiastic about any agreement being reached. Probably, almost certainly because the draconian measures suggested are going to cost the various protagonists not a little amount in terms of loss of jobs, industry etc.
A few home truths about climate change ("global warming's been consigned to the redundant bin...).
It was raining here in Oz yesterday. Today it's sunny. That...is climate change.
With a population of 6 1/2 billion and counting, there is no way we're NOT going to have an effect on our world, especially when we seem intent on ripping up forests like they've been deemed illegal. Vegetation is the planet's lungs and if the lung capacity of an organism is reduced, the ability of that lung to work is also diminished. In this case, the extra CO2 that 6 billion people do produce is not processed and released back into the atmosphere as life-giving oxygen. Vegetation, as I'm sure you know, thrives on CO2 like we do on oxygen.
So do not listen to anything that charlatan has to say for his agenda has nothing to do with saving the planet. Just a way of cementing his name in the annals of history.
Word of caution though, Adolf Hitler's name is well ensconced in the same history.
Monday, July 13, 2009
OPI SAYS NO TO TAZERS
The Office of Police Integrity will release a report next month attacking Victoria Police over the number of police shootings.
It is for this reason the OPI also have serious misgivings about arming officers with the new Tazer electric guns (in case they shoot each other maybe...).
I wrote a while ago about the case of the 15 year old boy, by the name of Tyler Cassidy. This boy, a 45 kilogram boy, having just been robbed on the public rail system, had returned home in an agitated state, grabbed a knife or two, and left, still in a state of high agitation.
His mother immediately contacted the police and informed them of the circumstances, seemingly secure in the knowledge that the police could and would apprehend the boy and bring him home safely.
Well, the rest as they say, is history. Four, that's four armed police officers indeed did locate the boy and in an act more reminiscent of a Nazi death squad, for all intents and purposes executed the youngster.
The coroner is currently investigating the boys death.
It should also be noted that although 10 shots were fired, only 7 found the mark.
And what happened to the cops? Counselling. Boohoo, poor wittle powicemen had to summarily execute a boy and they get counselling.
This would also tend to laugh in the face of the Police Association secretary, Senior Sargeant, Greg Davies' statement that "the force was well trained".
The OPI report, which is a wide-ranging analysis of Victoria Police's use of force, "will also recommend officers not be given Taser stun guns", OPI spokesman Paul Conroy said.
"There was insufficient emphasis on alternative uses of force and insufficient monitoring and analysis of use of force", Mr Conroy said.
"Alternative use of force" I would suggest could well involve four grown men/women being able to subdue a 15 year old boy no matter how many knives he was carrying. There was four cops for God's sake. That's one from each point of the compass. Are we seriously to believe the cops in this country are so utterly fucking useless at their job, that they can't disarm a young boy when it's 4 to 1???
"The education and training is not focused properly and insufficient," he told AAP on Monday. "The police are not in a space to be issued with Tasers".
"A lot of work needs to be done in training needs."
So there you go. These people whose job it is to protect us from the violent and criminal are in short, inept. That is of course unless they're sitting in their cars pointing hairdryers at inadvertent speeders. Then they can protect us like mfs.
And you see, we're told ad nauseum to respect the "police officer" like he or she is some sort of divine protector. Well, let me tell you something, any respect I have for anybody has been earned or they don't get it.
Respect can't be bought; it can't be awarded, it can't be bartered. It isn't conferred on the back of some title. It can only be earned.
And I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of cops who have indeed earned such respect. I'll wager I'm not alone either.
It is for this reason the OPI also have serious misgivings about arming officers with the new Tazer electric guns (in case they shoot each other maybe...).
I wrote a while ago about the case of the 15 year old boy, by the name of Tyler Cassidy. This boy, a 45 kilogram boy, having just been robbed on the public rail system, had returned home in an agitated state, grabbed a knife or two, and left, still in a state of high agitation.
His mother immediately contacted the police and informed them of the circumstances, seemingly secure in the knowledge that the police could and would apprehend the boy and bring him home safely.
Well, the rest as they say, is history. Four, that's four armed police officers indeed did locate the boy and in an act more reminiscent of a Nazi death squad, for all intents and purposes executed the youngster.
The coroner is currently investigating the boys death.
It should also be noted that although 10 shots were fired, only 7 found the mark.
And what happened to the cops? Counselling. Boohoo, poor wittle powicemen had to summarily execute a boy and they get counselling.
This would also tend to laugh in the face of the Police Association secretary, Senior Sargeant, Greg Davies' statement that "the force was well trained".
The OPI report, which is a wide-ranging analysis of Victoria Police's use of force, "will also recommend officers not be given Taser stun guns", OPI spokesman Paul Conroy said.
"There was insufficient emphasis on alternative uses of force and insufficient monitoring and analysis of use of force", Mr Conroy said.
"Alternative use of force" I would suggest could well involve four grown men/women being able to subdue a 15 year old boy no matter how many knives he was carrying. There was four cops for God's sake. That's one from each point of the compass. Are we seriously to believe the cops in this country are so utterly fucking useless at their job, that they can't disarm a young boy when it's 4 to 1???
"The education and training is not focused properly and insufficient," he told AAP on Monday. "The police are not in a space to be issued with Tasers".
"A lot of work needs to be done in training needs."
So there you go. These people whose job it is to protect us from the violent and criminal are in short, inept. That is of course unless they're sitting in their cars pointing hairdryers at inadvertent speeders. Then they can protect us like mfs.
And you see, we're told ad nauseum to respect the "police officer" like he or she is some sort of divine protector. Well, let me tell you something, any respect I have for anybody has been earned or they don't get it.
Respect can't be bought; it can't be awarded, it can't be bartered. It isn't conferred on the back of some title. It can only be earned.
And I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of cops who have indeed earned such respect. I'll wager I'm not alone either.
Monday, July 06, 2009
SOMEONE NEEDS TO CLIP THIS BIRD'S WINGS
The "Bird" of whom I speak is one Greg Bird, the cowardly rugby league player who was recently prosecuted for glassing his girlfriend.
Well, it has emerged that he is now facing yet more charges for assaulting another woman, this time in a Cronulla nightclub.
This spineless coward needs to be locked up. And then his fellow inmates need to hand out some natural justice in the form of beating him to a pulp. Then we'll see how hard he is.
Cowardly excuse for a man.
Well, it has emerged that he is now facing yet more charges for assaulting another woman, this time in a Cronulla nightclub.
This spineless coward needs to be locked up. And then his fellow inmates need to hand out some natural justice in the form of beating him to a pulp. Then we'll see how hard he is.
Cowardly excuse for a man.
CHURCH Vs STATE
John Howard, the former Prime Minister of Australia, has given a broad-ranging interview to Macquarie Radio.
In part, he spoke about the "stolen generation" issue, an intervention that saw children removed from their natural parents in the name of protecting them.
Said children were being abused, often sexually, and really, what else could have been done? The innocents in life must indeed, be protected from such a life. Kids of white parents are to this day removed if such action is warranted. And rightly so, any decent person would agree.
He also stood by his decision not to "say sorry" to the indigenous people for the intervention, saying, "No, I took the view that it's very easy for the current generation to apologise for mistakes of an earlier generation, and because it's so easy to do that I think it's meaningless,"
In this particular decision, I agree entirely. "We" didn't remove their children (from sexual abuse remember). Why should "we" apologise?
Howard went on to say he never regretted any of the major decisions his government made.
I should add that, notwithstanding the fact that Howard was a carreer politician of some forty years, and therefore pondlife, I have also held him in higher regard than most of his kind.
And I have agreed with the majority of his decisions.
However, in the radio interview he brings up, and sides with, the matter of one's personal beliefs being "brought forward into their public life".
And in principle, when one's referring to, basic moral values (interestingly, something the average politician chooses to ignore when it suits - if indeed they were ever awsare of a thing called moral value), I would also agree.
But one must also be cognizant of:
Tony Abbott - and his ilk. My utter contempt for this man is well known.
Abbott has attempted on several occasions to force his religious beliefs on this nation via legislation; first with the abortion drug RU 486, then in handing a pregnancy counselling service to his mates in the Papistry.
RU486 is a drug that facilitates miscarrige and is used globally as a safe way to terminate a pregnancy. Abortion is a personal choice taking in a myriad of factors and normally arrived at after much soul-searching and heart-rending acceptance of facts.
But Mt Abbott's a raging Papist and in his position, if he doesn't agree with abortion then neither can the public it seems. (In point of fact, the bill was voted down in the House, thank goodness - but nevertheless, that this odious little man could attempt such a flagrant violation of the pro-choice demographic is an indictment in itself...).
Not satisfied with his defeat, Abbott then "back-doored" the matter, and slyly awarded the pregnancy counselling service to the very people who share his belief - the young boy-buggering robed ones in the catholic church. Yeah, like we're going to get a fair shake now...
In fact, the Papistry is at least as dangerous as Islam. They may not be actively involved in a war with anyone currently but the reach and control they have over the world's 2 billion catholics has a greater effect on the world than we may be able to conceive.
So the last fucking thing anyone needs is some papist in government expanding this reach on those who deny such a belief.
Careful Johnny.
In part, he spoke about the "stolen generation" issue, an intervention that saw children removed from their natural parents in the name of protecting them.
Said children were being abused, often sexually, and really, what else could have been done? The innocents in life must indeed, be protected from such a life. Kids of white parents are to this day removed if such action is warranted. And rightly so, any decent person would agree.
He also stood by his decision not to "say sorry" to the indigenous people for the intervention, saying, "No, I took the view that it's very easy for the current generation to apologise for mistakes of an earlier generation, and because it's so easy to do that I think it's meaningless,"
In this particular decision, I agree entirely. "We" didn't remove their children (from sexual abuse remember). Why should "we" apologise?
Howard went on to say he never regretted any of the major decisions his government made.
I should add that, notwithstanding the fact that Howard was a carreer politician of some forty years, and therefore pondlife, I have also held him in higher regard than most of his kind.
And I have agreed with the majority of his decisions.
However, in the radio interview he brings up, and sides with, the matter of one's personal beliefs being "brought forward into their public life".
And in principle, when one's referring to, basic moral values (interestingly, something the average politician chooses to ignore when it suits - if indeed they were ever awsare of a thing called moral value), I would also agree.
But one must also be cognizant of:
Tony Abbott - and his ilk. My utter contempt for this man is well known.
Abbott has attempted on several occasions to force his religious beliefs on this nation via legislation; first with the abortion drug RU 486, then in handing a pregnancy counselling service to his mates in the Papistry.
RU486 is a drug that facilitates miscarrige and is used globally as a safe way to terminate a pregnancy. Abortion is a personal choice taking in a myriad of factors and normally arrived at after much soul-searching and heart-rending acceptance of facts.
But Mt Abbott's a raging Papist and in his position, if he doesn't agree with abortion then neither can the public it seems. (In point of fact, the bill was voted down in the House, thank goodness - but nevertheless, that this odious little man could attempt such a flagrant violation of the pro-choice demographic is an indictment in itself...).
Not satisfied with his defeat, Abbott then "back-doored" the matter, and slyly awarded the pregnancy counselling service to the very people who share his belief - the young boy-buggering robed ones in the catholic church. Yeah, like we're going to get a fair shake now...
In fact, the Papistry is at least as dangerous as Islam. They may not be actively involved in a war with anyone currently but the reach and control they have over the world's 2 billion catholics has a greater effect on the world than we may be able to conceive.
So the last fucking thing anyone needs is some papist in government expanding this reach on those who deny such a belief.
Careful Johnny.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
BETTER THAN...SEX
Those who know me will be well aware of my all-consuming love of two wheels. I've often been asked to explain what it is that thrills me so. To try to explain this I’ll describe a lap of Eastern creek racing circuit (as it’s the freshest in my mind…).
...crossing the start/finish line a few laps in and in a rhythm, the machine – in this case the bike in the pics, a ZX7R, is in top gear approaching 260 kilometres an hour. Which in fact, compared to the one litre bikes, is a bit slow actually – the modern litre missiles would be scraping 300 perhaps.
It has just exited turn 12, a relatively tight left-hander and rocketed down the straight.
Heading for turn 1.
Turn one is frightening; a fast left sweeper, with a brutal bump right on the apex.
And the secret to this corner requires nerve, the sort of nerve that defines racing; one has to wait until the very last minute – almost until over-shooting seems certain – before tipping it, or more accurately muscling it, into the turn. At this point the entire machine, even the best set-up ones, is flirting with instability as the forces of physics battle with the suspension/frame etc.
Nervous time.
It gets "nervouser"
Mere seconds later (the machine’s at about 200 clicks here – after scrubbing of speed and banging it down into 5th) the bike’s tilted over to about 40-45 degrees from 90, the knees slider’s on the tarmac, a raw scuff being heard, and felt through the knee.
Maximum (or close to it, restricted by machine set-up and aforementioned rider nerve) lean. To lose it here is a bowel-clenching thought – good chance of serious injury to person – quite possibly death, and undoubtedly a smashed to bits machine.
Hit the apex, clench over the bump, and wind back the throttle as the machine exits the turn, the rear wheel begging to let go its tenuous grip on the tarmac, to be followed by "losing it" (smashed/injury/death…).
As it straightens up, more power can be fed into the tyre and in a matter of milliseconds the bike is at full power again heading for the far side of the track in the classic racing line.
Here we come to the part of the explanation I like to call, "nearly shitting my pants".
Following the racing line, and at full power, around 250 plus again, the machine encounters the second irregularity in this particular corner. Except this time, as mentioned, it’s at full power. At the apex, it’s at the run-through part – coasting almost - albeit momentarily. Motorbikes, any race vehicle in fact, behave very differently when under power.
How this particular beast reacted to this bump under said power, was to violently "tankslap", an action where, because the front wheel is very light, the clip-ons (handlebars) slap from side to side, only being arrested by the lock stops. Believe me – the rider, supposedly in charge, is no more than a passenger at this point (always meant to get a steering damper...).
Thankfully, as can happen, the sheer momentum carried the bike over the bump quickly and the "slapping" subsided. Phew! Pants okay – no need to change.
Back onto full power again and scream towards turn 2, a hairpin, though not officially (officially the hairpin is turn 9...). The aim here, is a speciality of some, namely yours truly who is the master of the thing I’m coming to – late braking. Don’t master this…you’ll never win – end of story.
Similar to turn one, the machine races up to the turn, leaves it until the very last moment, almost to the point of overshooting again, then leaves it a split second longer...and "stands on everything", a colloquialism for braking extremely hard. Sit up (to catch the wind with the body); stick out elbows, stick out knees, fill lungs with air to increase surface area and provide unfettered view of corner, and lock arms, all the while yanking the brake lever in with 2 fingers.
If you’re doing it right, you’re at this point on one wheel – the front; the back’s in the air, and usually "fishtailing" left and right as final approach adjustments are made.
This time however, something else altogether more potentially "pant-filling" occurred. What I’ll call "shitting my pants #2".
Remember the "tankslapping" episode, just seconds ago, from which the pros have already recovered. Well, so vicious and violent it was, that when our intrepid racer yanked on the lever, it came right into the handgrip without any stopping power at all. Now normally this is because the front end has flexed under the extreme trauma of the slap and the brake pistons have been pushed back off the discs. Easily fixed. Just pump the lever and braking power swiftly returns – no big deal.
Wrong!
This time the right brake line had got caught between the lock stop and whipping steering head – on subsequent inspection the line was hanging by a few strands on outer sleeve.
So...250 clicks and no brakes. If you didn’t know what your sphincter was before, you can now taste it in your throat!
Eesh.
Suffice to say, and to cut a long story short (er), I managed to stop before hitting the tyre wall – by about a metre. See what happens when you let a dickhead fit your brake lines!!.
Anyway, to get back to the hot lap: reviewing: hard on the brakes, that work this time (I went and got another line and put it on my bloody self and went out next session…), fishtailing etc. knocking it down the gears from 6th to 1st, and tip it into the turn. The knee slaps against the tarmac, followed by the footpegs and outside toe of boot. (See pic)
Again, clip the apex, and feed in the power, the rear tyre protesting under the power. Threatening to spin while the front, in equal protest, tries to break contact with the surface; the only thing preventing it, the rider leaning his weight (yes, his – women can’t race, don’t even try arguing with me on this, ladies...) over the front.
Race towards turn 3, a fairly fast right-hander, short-shifting from 2nd to 3rd. Tipping in, feeling knees contact the surface, hit apex, feed in power, rear threatens again (for the record it does it on the exit from every turn, or you're not trying hard enough so...) and as the turn straightens out into a rise, front heads skywards (more leaning). Over crest and down the other side into turn 4 with more hard braking. Braking downhill is very, very risky. Gravity’s against you, too.
Round turn 4, knee on the deck and blast toward 5.
Whereas heading for 4 there’s plenty of time to show off with a nice power wheelie, 5, although also uphill with a crest at the top, has not enough distance to wheelie and get the front down in time to reduce speed for 6 and 7 which constitute the chicane. Also probably the third-hardest braking area on the circuit. Fortunately, there’s a cheat, which is more yet another test of nerve, where if an opponent gives an inch, big-balled racers take a mile and whip across the packed earth on the inside of the "rumble strip" whilst flashing past the not so big-balled rider on the way to more "eyeball against the inside of the visor" braking. This my friends, is one part of the attraction. At the point of tipping-in, the entire front end is under incredible pressure and the rider’s experiencing about 3Gs. A lonnng sweeper follows (see pic)
and begins to rise yet again. As always, the power is fed in, precisely this time, spinning the rear intentionally in parts, while trying to conserve the tyre integrity (a million races have been lost due to tyre disintegration). Eventually, though, inevitably of course, the exit is reached and with a final controlled spin, the machine yet again rockets towards its destiny.
I’ll digress again here to tell of on "off", another racing term to describe falling off, or sliding off as the case maybe.
Slingshot is a term that describes a particular method of cornering popular in the 90s. it involves, instead of the classic slow entry method; high in-corner speed, low but consistent lean angle way, a method whereby the rider drives straight through the entry in a straight line and brakes hard, (can’t win without it!) completely bypassing the traditional apex, slams the bike onto its side, smashing everything off the ground, knee, peg, boot, turns hard and fast, and "slingshots" out in an identical straight line to the entry vector. This method is known as the quick entry. And its principal fundamental is the removal of the corner proper, entirely. It works.
So off I went, "in the zone" as they say. Blitzing it (also as they say). Screaming round the circuit. Up and down the gears. Heading for my next challenge to be undisputedly conquered.
Or so I thought...
In my supreme confidence I did as all the greats do – I overstepped. I went too far – out into the track ne’er used, awash with track detritus, slippery, unstable...no sir – don’t want to be in there...no place for two wheels to be...
Both my tyres – ultimately the only thing keeping the machine upright; two patches of rubber no larger than the palm of a man’s hand – simultaneously gave way. At the angle of lean I simply "settled" onto the tarmac and let the greater weight of the machine draw it away from me. Off we went, my trusty steed and I towards the grassy run-off area. It’s not an entirely unpleasant experience sliding off like this – it’s almost like an adventure park ride at about 80 ks. And one learns to slide with the bike mere feet in front so that when the speed reaches acceptable levels the rider can start to pick the bike up before they stop moving.
I didn’t time it quite perfectly this time though but nevertheless still sprung up myself and bolted towards the arresting machine. (Effectively, the race is over, but it never has nor will stop us trying to win).
Damn and blast! All was well but for one crucial point. My baby...my crutch...without you I cannot win. The front brake lever lay embedded in the grass, right into the soil beneath. Broken in two – but two inches left. Dirty bastard. Off to get another – found a delightful chap who gave me his spare (racers are the nicest people). Back out next session. Seeing a pattern here?
Returning to the lap, as it’s become known: correctly, we would race up the rise in a straight line towards this new, more aggressive apex, go through the motions: hard braking et al, slam various expendables of the ground, turn the machine, lift bike upright and bury it, often laying a huge black line as the tyre attempts to strip itself of its surface layers (part of the attraction #2). Hell on the rubber though. See "million races lost".
But the effects otherwise are instantaneous as the full power transmits through the significantly larger surface area of the upright machine and the bike screams out of the turn like a crazy Irish banshee.
Heading down (again) towards the second hardest braking point on the circuit. Turn 9 – the hairpin proper, officially. In truth it is actually identical in terms of tightness to turn 2, (my hairpin...aye, it’s moine!)
More crazy braking, rear in the air (honestly, the rear brake on a racebike is obsolete frankly), fishtailing, the engine roaring as it’s fed down through the gears, using the engine as yet another arresting technique...tip into the right this time. It has a slight camber, along with the mild downhill slant. Straightforward.
This side of the tyre, though, is a double-edged sword; though rarely used by this point on the track so it is, to be fair, fresh - plenty of rubber, but at the same time, cooler, almost certainly not at optimum operating temperature. This can carry the risk of the bane of a racers existence – the always injurious highside. A brutal ind often ignominious way to dismount, resulting in breakages to body (arms, legs, feet etc. I in fact, broke my right forearm, mangled pinkie finger, broke back of hand). They never don’t hurt. Makes a fair mess of the bike – especially when it catches on something and cartwheels, when it proceeds to disintegrate in front of the eyes. Pieces exploding off it. Fairing plastic, tank, wheels even. Fuckin thing just comes apart...
So easy does it; feed in the power, get upright as quick as you can. Employing the fast in technique leaves the door wide open for a block pass here so fairly tight, the requisite hard braking and follow the classic line. A straight awaits and here we tuck the head behind the screen; the knees tight into the tank; elbows in and wind the throttle to the stop firing 3 gears into it in not many more seconds. The engine howls in ecstasy; this...is what it lives for. At this very moment we both live for this. We are one. I lie pressed close to her heart; she to mine. I have her by the throat, wringing every last ounce from her. Underneath she obeys, eager to please, on wings of fire she catapults me towards my desire. Rearing like its organic cousin – in triumph. I let her coast for a while, huddled down behind the screen, I tease her by shifting balance...
Enough. Time to get down; the next turns approach, another chicane, but so fast and wide, it can be ridden straight through. Drop the wheel. Another thrill electrifies me. Can this get better? Surely not, surely this is a peak – it must be. My heart races. I feel like I can fly. I am a single-minded machine. I have but one purpose...
The final two turns: 11 and 12 – which can easily be transformed into one lonng sweeper. Into 11, straight through, let her come right out to the rumble strip; caress it; continue the smooth turn, set it up right, the exit from 12 leads to the start/finish straight. It is essential, imperative to get good drive onto this. If you’ve previously fucked your tyre with your fuckin around sliding the rear, then this, second only to lack of hard braking, loses races.
My steed and I explode onto the straight and once again I lay close to her as we blast like a ride-on guided missile across this straight. Putting every gear into her we soon reached our top speed, around 270 clicks.
We do this another 30 times.
Afterwards in the garage as she plinks her satisfaction whilst cooling down, I wander the pit in a state of ecstasy, the adrenaline, though diminished, still flowing with purpose – like an engine shifted into neutral at speed slowing exponentially.
Strangely, my high lasts until nearly precisely my partner is cold. While she sleeps, her work done, I float the rest of the day.
As I said - better than sex
...crossing the start/finish line a few laps in and in a rhythm, the machine – in this case the bike in the pics, a ZX7R, is in top gear approaching 260 kilometres an hour. Which in fact, compared to the one litre bikes, is a bit slow actually – the modern litre missiles would be scraping 300 perhaps.
It has just exited turn 12, a relatively tight left-hander and rocketed down the straight.
Heading for turn 1.
Turn one is frightening; a fast left sweeper, with a brutal bump right on the apex.
And the secret to this corner requires nerve, the sort of nerve that defines racing; one has to wait until the very last minute – almost until over-shooting seems certain – before tipping it, or more accurately muscling it, into the turn. At this point the entire machine, even the best set-up ones, is flirting with instability as the forces of physics battle with the suspension/frame etc.
Nervous time.
It gets "nervouser"
Mere seconds later (the machine’s at about 200 clicks here – after scrubbing of speed and banging it down into 5th) the bike’s tilted over to about 40-45 degrees from 90, the knees slider’s on the tarmac, a raw scuff being heard, and felt through the knee.
Maximum (or close to it, restricted by machine set-up and aforementioned rider nerve) lean. To lose it here is a bowel-clenching thought – good chance of serious injury to person – quite possibly death, and undoubtedly a smashed to bits machine.
Hit the apex, clench over the bump, and wind back the throttle as the machine exits the turn, the rear wheel begging to let go its tenuous grip on the tarmac, to be followed by "losing it" (smashed/injury/death…).
As it straightens up, more power can be fed into the tyre and in a matter of milliseconds the bike is at full power again heading for the far side of the track in the classic racing line.
Here we come to the part of the explanation I like to call, "nearly shitting my pants".
Following the racing line, and at full power, around 250 plus again, the machine encounters the second irregularity in this particular corner. Except this time, as mentioned, it’s at full power. At the apex, it’s at the run-through part – coasting almost - albeit momentarily. Motorbikes, any race vehicle in fact, behave very differently when under power.
How this particular beast reacted to this bump under said power, was to violently "tankslap", an action where, because the front wheel is very light, the clip-ons (handlebars) slap from side to side, only being arrested by the lock stops. Believe me – the rider, supposedly in charge, is no more than a passenger at this point (always meant to get a steering damper...).
Thankfully, as can happen, the sheer momentum carried the bike over the bump quickly and the "slapping" subsided. Phew! Pants okay – no need to change.
Back onto full power again and scream towards turn 2, a hairpin, though not officially (officially the hairpin is turn 9...). The aim here, is a speciality of some, namely yours truly who is the master of the thing I’m coming to – late braking. Don’t master this…you’ll never win – end of story.
Similar to turn one, the machine races up to the turn, leaves it until the very last moment, almost to the point of overshooting again, then leaves it a split second longer...and "stands on everything", a colloquialism for braking extremely hard. Sit up (to catch the wind with the body); stick out elbows, stick out knees, fill lungs with air to increase surface area and provide unfettered view of corner, and lock arms, all the while yanking the brake lever in with 2 fingers.
If you’re doing it right, you’re at this point on one wheel – the front; the back’s in the air, and usually "fishtailing" left and right as final approach adjustments are made.
This time however, something else altogether more potentially "pant-filling" occurred. What I’ll call "shitting my pants #2".
Remember the "tankslapping" episode, just seconds ago, from which the pros have already recovered. Well, so vicious and violent it was, that when our intrepid racer yanked on the lever, it came right into the handgrip without any stopping power at all. Now normally this is because the front end has flexed under the extreme trauma of the slap and the brake pistons have been pushed back off the discs. Easily fixed. Just pump the lever and braking power swiftly returns – no big deal.
Wrong!
This time the right brake line had got caught between the lock stop and whipping steering head – on subsequent inspection the line was hanging by a few strands on outer sleeve.
So...250 clicks and no brakes. If you didn’t know what your sphincter was before, you can now taste it in your throat!
Eesh.
Suffice to say, and to cut a long story short (er), I managed to stop before hitting the tyre wall – by about a metre. See what happens when you let a dickhead fit your brake lines!!.
Anyway, to get back to the hot lap: reviewing: hard on the brakes, that work this time (I went and got another line and put it on my bloody self and went out next session…), fishtailing etc. knocking it down the gears from 6th to 1st, and tip it into the turn. The knee slaps against the tarmac, followed by the footpegs and outside toe of boot. (See pic)
Again, clip the apex, and feed in the power, the rear tyre protesting under the power. Threatening to spin while the front, in equal protest, tries to break contact with the surface; the only thing preventing it, the rider leaning his weight (yes, his – women can’t race, don’t even try arguing with me on this, ladies...) over the front.
Race towards turn 3, a fairly fast right-hander, short-shifting from 2nd to 3rd. Tipping in, feeling knees contact the surface, hit apex, feed in power, rear threatens again (for the record it does it on the exit from every turn, or you're not trying hard enough so...) and as the turn straightens out into a rise, front heads skywards (more leaning). Over crest and down the other side into turn 4 with more hard braking. Braking downhill is very, very risky. Gravity’s against you, too.
Round turn 4, knee on the deck and blast toward 5.
Whereas heading for 4 there’s plenty of time to show off with a nice power wheelie, 5, although also uphill with a crest at the top, has not enough distance to wheelie and get the front down in time to reduce speed for 6 and 7 which constitute the chicane. Also probably the third-hardest braking area on the circuit. Fortunately, there’s a cheat, which is more yet another test of nerve, where if an opponent gives an inch, big-balled racers take a mile and whip across the packed earth on the inside of the "rumble strip" whilst flashing past the not so big-balled rider on the way to more "eyeball against the inside of the visor" braking. This my friends, is one part of the attraction. At the point of tipping-in, the entire front end is under incredible pressure and the rider’s experiencing about 3Gs. A lonnng sweeper follows (see pic)
and begins to rise yet again. As always, the power is fed in, precisely this time, spinning the rear intentionally in parts, while trying to conserve the tyre integrity (a million races have been lost due to tyre disintegration). Eventually, though, inevitably of course, the exit is reached and with a final controlled spin, the machine yet again rockets towards its destiny.
I’ll digress again here to tell of on "off", another racing term to describe falling off, or sliding off as the case maybe.
Slingshot is a term that describes a particular method of cornering popular in the 90s. it involves, instead of the classic slow entry method; high in-corner speed, low but consistent lean angle way, a method whereby the rider drives straight through the entry in a straight line and brakes hard, (can’t win without it!) completely bypassing the traditional apex, slams the bike onto its side, smashing everything off the ground, knee, peg, boot, turns hard and fast, and "slingshots" out in an identical straight line to the entry vector. This method is known as the quick entry. And its principal fundamental is the removal of the corner proper, entirely. It works.
So off I went, "in the zone" as they say. Blitzing it (also as they say). Screaming round the circuit. Up and down the gears. Heading for my next challenge to be undisputedly conquered.
Or so I thought...
In my supreme confidence I did as all the greats do – I overstepped. I went too far – out into the track ne’er used, awash with track detritus, slippery, unstable...no sir – don’t want to be in there...no place for two wheels to be...
Both my tyres – ultimately the only thing keeping the machine upright; two patches of rubber no larger than the palm of a man’s hand – simultaneously gave way. At the angle of lean I simply "settled" onto the tarmac and let the greater weight of the machine draw it away from me. Off we went, my trusty steed and I towards the grassy run-off area. It’s not an entirely unpleasant experience sliding off like this – it’s almost like an adventure park ride at about 80 ks. And one learns to slide with the bike mere feet in front so that when the speed reaches acceptable levels the rider can start to pick the bike up before they stop moving.
I didn’t time it quite perfectly this time though but nevertheless still sprung up myself and bolted towards the arresting machine. (Effectively, the race is over, but it never has nor will stop us trying to win).
Damn and blast! All was well but for one crucial point. My baby...my crutch...without you I cannot win. The front brake lever lay embedded in the grass, right into the soil beneath. Broken in two – but two inches left. Dirty bastard. Off to get another – found a delightful chap who gave me his spare (racers are the nicest people). Back out next session. Seeing a pattern here?
Returning to the lap, as it’s become known: correctly, we would race up the rise in a straight line towards this new, more aggressive apex, go through the motions: hard braking et al, slam various expendables of the ground, turn the machine, lift bike upright and bury it, often laying a huge black line as the tyre attempts to strip itself of its surface layers (part of the attraction #2). Hell on the rubber though. See "million races lost".
But the effects otherwise are instantaneous as the full power transmits through the significantly larger surface area of the upright machine and the bike screams out of the turn like a crazy Irish banshee.
Heading down (again) towards the second hardest braking point on the circuit. Turn 9 – the hairpin proper, officially. In truth it is actually identical in terms of tightness to turn 2, (my hairpin...aye, it’s moine!)
More crazy braking, rear in the air (honestly, the rear brake on a racebike is obsolete frankly), fishtailing, the engine roaring as it’s fed down through the gears, using the engine as yet another arresting technique...tip into the right this time. It has a slight camber, along with the mild downhill slant. Straightforward.
This side of the tyre, though, is a double-edged sword; though rarely used by this point on the track so it is, to be fair, fresh - plenty of rubber, but at the same time, cooler, almost certainly not at optimum operating temperature. This can carry the risk of the bane of a racers existence – the always injurious highside. A brutal ind often ignominious way to dismount, resulting in breakages to body (arms, legs, feet etc. I in fact, broke my right forearm, mangled pinkie finger, broke back of hand). They never don’t hurt. Makes a fair mess of the bike – especially when it catches on something and cartwheels, when it proceeds to disintegrate in front of the eyes. Pieces exploding off it. Fairing plastic, tank, wheels even. Fuckin thing just comes apart...
So easy does it; feed in the power, get upright as quick as you can. Employing the fast in technique leaves the door wide open for a block pass here so fairly tight, the requisite hard braking and follow the classic line. A straight awaits and here we tuck the head behind the screen; the knees tight into the tank; elbows in and wind the throttle to the stop firing 3 gears into it in not many more seconds. The engine howls in ecstasy; this...is what it lives for. At this very moment we both live for this. We are one. I lie pressed close to her heart; she to mine. I have her by the throat, wringing every last ounce from her. Underneath she obeys, eager to please, on wings of fire she catapults me towards my desire. Rearing like its organic cousin – in triumph. I let her coast for a while, huddled down behind the screen, I tease her by shifting balance...
Enough. Time to get down; the next turns approach, another chicane, but so fast and wide, it can be ridden straight through. Drop the wheel. Another thrill electrifies me. Can this get better? Surely not, surely this is a peak – it must be. My heart races. I feel like I can fly. I am a single-minded machine. I have but one purpose...
The final two turns: 11 and 12 – which can easily be transformed into one lonng sweeper. Into 11, straight through, let her come right out to the rumble strip; caress it; continue the smooth turn, set it up right, the exit from 12 leads to the start/finish straight. It is essential, imperative to get good drive onto this. If you’ve previously fucked your tyre with your fuckin around sliding the rear, then this, second only to lack of hard braking, loses races.
My steed and I explode onto the straight and once again I lay close to her as we blast like a ride-on guided missile across this straight. Putting every gear into her we soon reached our top speed, around 270 clicks.
We do this another 30 times.
Afterwards in the garage as she plinks her satisfaction whilst cooling down, I wander the pit in a state of ecstasy, the adrenaline, though diminished, still flowing with purpose – like an engine shifted into neutral at speed slowing exponentially.
Strangely, my high lasts until nearly precisely my partner is cold. While she sleeps, her work done, I float the rest of the day.
As I said - better than sex
Thursday, May 28, 2009
GOTTA LOVE THOSE CHASER BOYS...
For those not in the know, the Chaser boys are a group of five characters who produce a TV comedy show for Australia's ABC.
Their irreverence is the stuff of legend - and not just in Oz. If you've been keeping a watching brief here you'll remember the APEC stunt. The link below is a reminder:
http://muttars.blogspot.com/2007/09/apec.html
Well they've just begun their third (and last apparently) series. And in it they've taken a shot at the Cronulla Sharks Rugby League Team (see post beneath this).
They somehow got into the control box of the stadium during a game and announced over the PA system, to the entire stadium, "Would all players involved in the sex scandal 7 years ago please come to the office?"
They were last seen scarpering after someone was heard to say, "someone call security".
LMAO. Classic Chaser.
Their irreverence is the stuff of legend - and not just in Oz. If you've been keeping a watching brief here you'll remember the APEC stunt. The link below is a reminder:
http://muttars.blogspot.com/2007/09/apec.html
Well they've just begun their third (and last apparently) series. And in it they've taken a shot at the Cronulla Sharks Rugby League Team (see post beneath this).
They somehow got into the control box of the stadium during a game and announced over the PA system, to the entire stadium, "Would all players involved in the sex scandal 7 years ago please come to the office?"
They were last seen scarpering after someone was heard to say, "someone call security".
LMAO. Classic Chaser.
Friday, May 15, 2009
MATTHEW JOHNS
My first thought was, Looks like the Johns boys are at it again”, referring to Andrew Johns’ discretion of being caught by the London Bobbies in possession of the much maligned “e” tablet. At that time I sided with Johns, citing that he was considered the best 5/8th in world rugby league and as such he could just tell them to get fucked! (The result if he did so couldn’t’ve been much worse an outcome after they laid him bare at the altar of public condemnation. Poor bastard. Completely subjugated by relentless, withering castigation.
What got my head in a bucket was the stomach-churning sanctimony – compete with finger-wagging. Oh how I’d like to grab that finger and snap the fucker!!)
Anyway, I digress. “Joey” (Andrew Johns’ nickname from his adoring public) got over it, as people do – the Rags quickly lose interest and move on after they’ve milked the story for all it’s worth. The sanctimonious even themselves I’d suggest, got tired of their own bleating on and slithered, noses in the air, back to whichever rock they live under ready to spring out again should anyone smoke a joint or say fuck in public.
Not to be outdone by his pill-carrying brother, Matthew Johns, the younger sibling, decided to stick it to some starstruck chick in a hotel room. To be precise, “Matty” Johns (His nickname, also from an adoring public)…and friend decided to stick it to her. Though the “friend” hasn’t presented himself (who could blame him, really – why would you???) and Matty’s lips are sealed (and coming from a man where “grassing/squealing” was paid for in kneecaps, that’s as Ali G would say, “Respect”, with the hand flourish those rapper types use).
So, to recap, we have a 19 year old woman (whilst still in the teens, a 19 year old is considered an adult woman) who freely and uncoerced went with two rugby league players (remember, these boys have been hit too hard once too often and can quite often be observed thinking with the wrong head…) to a hotel room. Why would she do that? To “talk”? To maybe play one against another? Or to have theem both? Either way it’s fairly clear to all but the most fanatically feminist or blinkered head-in-the-sand that this girl/woman was intent on having sex in the room.
Which indeed proved to be the case. The other Johns brother nailed her. And when considering the Godlike status in which he was held, she would have been a keen recipient. All day every day these women throw themselves with wanton abandon at these league stars. In toilet cubicles (Sonny Bill Williams and Candize Fallon), alleys, wherever they can actually, and both Johns’s were the cream of the crop – apparently (least they weren’t pretty boys, I’ll give them that).
It’s unclear who the friend was as I’ve mentioned; also unclear is whether or not he jumped on for a go after Mattty – or at the same time).
Now here it gets a bit odd, as the room started filling up with more players – some even going to the extent of entering through a bathroom window like the zombies of the old films.
Where they proceeded as is reported, to engage in various sex acts with the woman, including but not restricted to I believe, whipping out their weiners and “shoving” or waving them in the girls face (while you’re down there, love…).
This all occurred 7 years ago. The woman recently approached the authorities with the information approximately 5 days ago, creating, unsurprisingly, a shitstorm not unlike the one Matty’s brother faced about 5 years ago. This one driven by the tide of female respect advocates (Note: this author is an advocate of womens’ rights himself – as long as they understand this author by virtue of being a male, is superior). The rape crisis centre was even quoted despite the NZ Police fully investigating and finding no legal case to answer.
Case closed.
Until now. Johns appeared on TV like a good little soldier and gave a heartfelt apology to the schtuked woman. His wife, sat stoically supporting her husband in a show of solidarity, though it’ll be years before Matty gets any honey from this one I’d suggest.
The schtukee had everyone fooled with her tearful recollection of the night. Her face blurred, with only her chin and lower lip clear, she has refused to identify herself, despite Johns being international news.
Back and forward the sides of the argument swung. League players not having the best reputation, were vilified; the suits came out in force, condemning and assuring. Womens’ advocates threw their own shots, laced with the ever-present emotion and demanding women be treated with respect, damn it!
On and on it went. Reaching a stalemate of sorts. The NZ Police declined to reopen the case citing, again, no charges to press. And then out of nowhere came a witness for the defence.
A friend or workmate of the woman, on a Channel Ten report tonight, claims she heard the woman “five days or so after” boasting that she had 5 or 6 men at once. She could be lying but this is consistent with the earlier quote from Johns, that the woman, after Johns had dismounted as it were, said, “someone get over here and have sex with me”. Which is, quite obviously a damning statement, demand even.
Somebody in fact did, “get over there”. Johns is staying tight-lipped. And a further report has just emerged of the woman's employer witnessing her boasting for several days about the great night she had with two league players.
Cat amongst the pigeons time. This in complete contradiction to her earlier televised performance.
Virtually case dismissed, such as it was. But mud sticks and the already well-known anomie of Rugby League, not long recovered from the last transgression mere weeks ago, will suffer another blow.
The fact is, this should have never left the Johns’ home. It is about personal fidelity towards one’s wife. This distasteful episode has all the hallmarks of a chase for easy money. The woman claims she only recognised Johns. Are we to believe she had no recollection of the second man? The one who was in the party of 3, who originally went to the room? Wasn’t he one of the “5 or 6”? The second, surely?
Lucky you didn’t knock her up, eh Matty? Sue ‘em, Matty, sue the fuck out of them and beg your wife’s forgiveness…and keep your dick in your pocket, y’fuckin’ caveman.
The media leapt at this, immediately, as they do, to the defence of the poor put-upon woman. (Make up your minds for fuck’s sake – thought you were equal??). Forcing Johns to bear humiliation on international TV. The wife; the kids. The intrusion in their lives.
With, it transpires, only half the story…
And they have their own money – no government (read taxpayer of course) baleout. AND…Rupert Murdoch, the newspaper and media giant, who has to quote Denny Crane, “more money than God”, has created new charges for his online viewing or something similar.
Yeah Matty, take ‘em to the cleaners!!!
What got my head in a bucket was the stomach-churning sanctimony – compete with finger-wagging. Oh how I’d like to grab that finger and snap the fucker!!)
Anyway, I digress. “Joey” (Andrew Johns’ nickname from his adoring public) got over it, as people do – the Rags quickly lose interest and move on after they’ve milked the story for all it’s worth. The sanctimonious even themselves I’d suggest, got tired of their own bleating on and slithered, noses in the air, back to whichever rock they live under ready to spring out again should anyone smoke a joint or say fuck in public.
Not to be outdone by his pill-carrying brother, Matthew Johns, the younger sibling, decided to stick it to some starstruck chick in a hotel room. To be precise, “Matty” Johns (His nickname, also from an adoring public)…and friend decided to stick it to her. Though the “friend” hasn’t presented himself (who could blame him, really – why would you???) and Matty’s lips are sealed (and coming from a man where “grassing/squealing” was paid for in kneecaps, that’s as Ali G would say, “Respect”, with the hand flourish those rapper types use).
So, to recap, we have a 19 year old woman (whilst still in the teens, a 19 year old is considered an adult woman) who freely and uncoerced went with two rugby league players (remember, these boys have been hit too hard once too often and can quite often be observed thinking with the wrong head…) to a hotel room. Why would she do that? To “talk”? To maybe play one against another? Or to have theem both? Either way it’s fairly clear to all but the most fanatically feminist or blinkered head-in-the-sand that this girl/woman was intent on having sex in the room.
Which indeed proved to be the case. The other Johns brother nailed her. And when considering the Godlike status in which he was held, she would have been a keen recipient. All day every day these women throw themselves with wanton abandon at these league stars. In toilet cubicles (Sonny Bill Williams and Candize Fallon), alleys, wherever they can actually, and both Johns’s were the cream of the crop – apparently (least they weren’t pretty boys, I’ll give them that).
It’s unclear who the friend was as I’ve mentioned; also unclear is whether or not he jumped on for a go after Mattty – or at the same time).
Now here it gets a bit odd, as the room started filling up with more players – some even going to the extent of entering through a bathroom window like the zombies of the old films.
Where they proceeded as is reported, to engage in various sex acts with the woman, including but not restricted to I believe, whipping out their weiners and “shoving” or waving them in the girls face (while you’re down there, love…).
This all occurred 7 years ago. The woman recently approached the authorities with the information approximately 5 days ago, creating, unsurprisingly, a shitstorm not unlike the one Matty’s brother faced about 5 years ago. This one driven by the tide of female respect advocates (Note: this author is an advocate of womens’ rights himself – as long as they understand this author by virtue of being a male, is superior). The rape crisis centre was even quoted despite the NZ Police fully investigating and finding no legal case to answer.
Case closed.
Until now. Johns appeared on TV like a good little soldier and gave a heartfelt apology to the schtuked woman. His wife, sat stoically supporting her husband in a show of solidarity, though it’ll be years before Matty gets any honey from this one I’d suggest.
The schtukee had everyone fooled with her tearful recollection of the night. Her face blurred, with only her chin and lower lip clear, she has refused to identify herself, despite Johns being international news.
Back and forward the sides of the argument swung. League players not having the best reputation, were vilified; the suits came out in force, condemning and assuring. Womens’ advocates threw their own shots, laced with the ever-present emotion and demanding women be treated with respect, damn it!
On and on it went. Reaching a stalemate of sorts. The NZ Police declined to reopen the case citing, again, no charges to press. And then out of nowhere came a witness for the defence.
A friend or workmate of the woman, on a Channel Ten report tonight, claims she heard the woman “five days or so after” boasting that she had 5 or 6 men at once. She could be lying but this is consistent with the earlier quote from Johns, that the woman, after Johns had dismounted as it were, said, “someone get over here and have sex with me”. Which is, quite obviously a damning statement, demand even.
Somebody in fact did, “get over there”. Johns is staying tight-lipped. And a further report has just emerged of the woman's employer witnessing her boasting for several days about the great night she had with two league players.
Cat amongst the pigeons time. This in complete contradiction to her earlier televised performance.
Virtually case dismissed, such as it was. But mud sticks and the already well-known anomie of Rugby League, not long recovered from the last transgression mere weeks ago, will suffer another blow.
The fact is, this should have never left the Johns’ home. It is about personal fidelity towards one’s wife. This distasteful episode has all the hallmarks of a chase for easy money. The woman claims she only recognised Johns. Are we to believe she had no recollection of the second man? The one who was in the party of 3, who originally went to the room? Wasn’t he one of the “5 or 6”? The second, surely?
Lucky you didn’t knock her up, eh Matty? Sue ‘em, Matty, sue the fuck out of them and beg your wife’s forgiveness…and keep your dick in your pocket, y’fuckin’ caveman.
The media leapt at this, immediately, as they do, to the defence of the poor put-upon woman. (Make up your minds for fuck’s sake – thought you were equal??). Forcing Johns to bear humiliation on international TV. The wife; the kids. The intrusion in their lives.
With, it transpires, only half the story…
And they have their own money – no government (read taxpayer of course) baleout. AND…Rupert Murdoch, the newspaper and media giant, who has to quote Denny Crane, “more money than God”, has created new charges for his online viewing or something similar.
Yeah Matty, take ‘em to the cleaners!!!
Friday, May 01, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
MUTTARS' NEW TOY
Well, I looked for quite some time and finally found it. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you:
'O1 WR 426F
Tah-dahhhh!
Wonder how long it'll take me to get arrested on it...
'O1 WR 426F
Tah-dahhhh!
Wonder how long it'll take me to get arrested on it...
Sunday, March 29, 2009
NICE OF YOU TO CATCH UP, DAILY RAG
About 5 years later...
Because for about that length of time I've been telling you, (to no avail, obviously) that women are in charge.
Now a poll has stated that in terms of buying a home, only 7.8% of men make the final decision. Apparently women's influence was impacting on house design.
Like I said - nice of you to catch up.
FYI - the same applies to cars, TVs, clothes for their men (for men read boys), where they live, work, everything. This because after about a decade of women being told they're equal (do NOT be fucking ridiculous) they've in effect castrated men resulting in this hybrid or third sex. A hairless, tight boxer-wearing, exfoliating, pretty boy who looks upon his wife more like his mother and spends more time in the bathroom "prettying" himself up than his bloody woman.
And then they have have the nerve to ask, "where are all the men?"
There aren't any left, ladies - you've seen to that. Well done. Reap what you sow, knuckleheads!
Because for about that length of time I've been telling you, (to no avail, obviously) that women are in charge.
Now a poll has stated that in terms of buying a home, only 7.8% of men make the final decision. Apparently women's influence was impacting on house design.
Like I said - nice of you to catch up.
FYI - the same applies to cars, TVs, clothes for their men (for men read boys), where they live, work, everything. This because after about a decade of women being told they're equal (do NOT be fucking ridiculous) they've in effect castrated men resulting in this hybrid or third sex. A hairless, tight boxer-wearing, exfoliating, pretty boy who looks upon his wife more like his mother and spends more time in the bathroom "prettying" himself up than his bloody woman.
And then they have have the nerve to ask, "where are all the men?"
There aren't any left, ladies - you've seen to that. Well done. Reap what you sow, knuckleheads!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
CALLING ALL RETARDS...
Cretins, numbskulls, morons, and the terminally stupid.
Earth Hour is all but upon you. Starting with the Kiwis who, given that stupidity's a global issue, must have cretins of their own. KB lives in New Zealand. Hope she has the common sense to ignore this nonsense. (And I hope it doesn't effect the Crusaders' game tonight). Then next is Australia, and by Christ, I KNOW how many boneheads are in this country!
I wonder can I drive around in my ute with the lights off. "It's Earth Hour, officer - I'm just doing my bit!"
I also wonder if all the burglars are preparing to go to work.
Y'see what you slow of mind people have let the Antichrist start! I don't know about weeping but Jesus must be sitting in stunned disbelief at what's going on.
Earth Hour is all but upon you. Starting with the Kiwis who, given that stupidity's a global issue, must have cretins of their own. KB lives in New Zealand. Hope she has the common sense to ignore this nonsense. (And I hope it doesn't effect the Crusaders' game tonight). Then next is Australia, and by Christ, I KNOW how many boneheads are in this country!
I wonder can I drive around in my ute with the lights off. "It's Earth Hour, officer - I'm just doing my bit!"
I also wonder if all the burglars are preparing to go to work.
Y'see what you slow of mind people have let the Antichrist start! I don't know about weeping but Jesus must be sitting in stunned disbelief at what's going on.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
BANKS FIGHT AGAINST FRAUD
Banks in Melbourne are fighting against a group of men who've stolen $500,000 dollars of customers' money by ATM scams.
Puffing out their chests and congratulating themselves at their actions. Great. But hang on - what about the 10 BILLION the banks themselves steal from the very same customers with their insidious fees. If we could get rid of those I'd gladly give up a measly half mill to scamers!
Meanwhile, in Edinburgh, Scotland, the head of the now defunct Royal Bank of Scotland (who after heading the collapse of the institution) has had his multi-million dollar home attacked by a group calling themselves "Bank bosses are thieves". The thief in question also had his 400,000 dollar Mercedes vandalized to.
I would chuckle if it wasn't for the fact he more than likely has comprehensive insurance on it which will repair the damage free of charge - then the company will increase premiums to cover the loss, premiums held by Joe Ordinary. If ever there were greater thieves than banks, it's insurance companies.
Can't win really.
Puffing out their chests and congratulating themselves at their actions. Great. But hang on - what about the 10 BILLION the banks themselves steal from the very same customers with their insidious fees. If we could get rid of those I'd gladly give up a measly half mill to scamers!
Meanwhile, in Edinburgh, Scotland, the head of the now defunct Royal Bank of Scotland (who after heading the collapse of the institution) has had his multi-million dollar home attacked by a group calling themselves "Bank bosses are thieves". The thief in question also had his 400,000 dollar Mercedes vandalized to.
I would chuckle if it wasn't for the fact he more than likely has comprehensive insurance on it which will repair the damage free of charge - then the company will increase premiums to cover the loss, premiums held by Joe Ordinary. If ever there were greater thieves than banks, it's insurance companies.
Can't win really.
Monday, March 23, 2009
YET MORE STERLING WORK FROM THE FILTH
TIME: Early afternoon
PLACE: Sydney International Airport
Yesterday afternoon in Sydney International Airport a man was set upon by a group of men and beaten to death. Right in the middle of Terminal Four in front of stunned onlookers.
The victim had arrived from Adelaide and was connected to a bikie gang. The (alleged - it's before the courts, don't want to be sued) offenders were part of a street gang by the name of Notorious.
It's reported that the men grabbed the steel poles that are used to create the lines for passengers and beat the bikie to death right there in front of everyone.
Where were the filth? They might have been busy puffing out their chests and chatting up the pretty young things in the stores around the complex (wanna see my big gun, love?); they may also have been out front handing out tickets to drivers who happen to stop for more than a millisecond at the front of the complex (look at my badge - it gives me carte blanche to do whatever the fuck I want...); they may even have been stuffing doughnuts into their fat, useless faces (criminals? what criminals?).
But I'll tell you where they weren't - doing their fucking jobs - and the result is a man gets beaten to death while those who witnessed the violent attack were traumatized, probably resulting in the need for some sort of subsequent counselling (have you ever seen a man beaten to death in front of you...?) and quite possibly legal action against the government.
Listen to this for God's sake: the whole incident took over five minutes and took place over five different places in the airport resulting in five separate crime scenes, then, after the attack, the offenders actually all got into a taxi and left.
Not a cop to be seen. Eh? see what I'm saying?
Yet break the speed limit, don't wear a seat belt, talk on the phone whilst driving...and every copper in town comes out of the woodwork.
Fucking...
useless...
fuckers.
Now of course the Filth management are doing what they do best - slamming shut the stable door whilst vehemently exclaiming, :this will not be allowed to happen".
As I say - useless fuckers.
PLACE: Sydney International Airport
Yesterday afternoon in Sydney International Airport a man was set upon by a group of men and beaten to death. Right in the middle of Terminal Four in front of stunned onlookers.
The victim had arrived from Adelaide and was connected to a bikie gang. The (alleged - it's before the courts, don't want to be sued) offenders were part of a street gang by the name of Notorious.
It's reported that the men grabbed the steel poles that are used to create the lines for passengers and beat the bikie to death right there in front of everyone.
Where were the filth? They might have been busy puffing out their chests and chatting up the pretty young things in the stores around the complex (wanna see my big gun, love?); they may also have been out front handing out tickets to drivers who happen to stop for more than a millisecond at the front of the complex (look at my badge - it gives me carte blanche to do whatever the fuck I want...); they may even have been stuffing doughnuts into their fat, useless faces (criminals? what criminals?).
But I'll tell you where they weren't - doing their fucking jobs - and the result is a man gets beaten to death while those who witnessed the violent attack were traumatized, probably resulting in the need for some sort of subsequent counselling (have you ever seen a man beaten to death in front of you...?) and quite possibly legal action against the government.
Listen to this for God's sake: the whole incident took over five minutes and took place over five different places in the airport resulting in five separate crime scenes, then, after the attack, the offenders actually all got into a taxi and left.
Not a cop to be seen. Eh? see what I'm saying?
Yet break the speed limit, don't wear a seat belt, talk on the phone whilst driving...and every copper in town comes out of the woodwork.
Fucking...
useless...
fuckers.
Now of course the Filth management are doing what they do best - slamming shut the stable door whilst vehemently exclaiming, :this will not be allowed to happen".
As I say - useless fuckers.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
EARTH HOUR 2009
28th of March.
So...every light in the house on, TV, stereo, air-con on (both of them), fridge door open, turn on the ute and leave it spitting out diesel fumes, and smoke two cigarettes at once.
Earth hour indeed. Such a load of wank...followed by such a load of cretins!
So...every light in the house on, TV, stereo, air-con on (both of them), fridge door open, turn on the ute and leave it spitting out diesel fumes, and smoke two cigarettes at once.
Earth hour indeed. Such a load of wank...followed by such a load of cretins!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
BIG FAT HAIRY SPIDER.
I walked face first into one of these the other day...felt like Indiana Jones. The entire web flexed as my face pushed it backwards. I swear I felt the Big Hairy One scurry away.
For my part, as the threads of super-strength silk began to impress on the skin of my face like elastic, I froze and immediately backed off.
Disaster averted (more so for the spider than me it has to be said - fair bit of work in constructing one of these webs actually - I know, I watched once).
Up close he (or she) was working his/her mandibles, as if eating, however, it could have been grooming. Perched head-down on its eight perfectly formed legs.
Impressive spider - no doubt.
I walked through a couple of these webs tonight, early into their construction as I think they were only support cables - foundations if y'like, but they wrapped around me and I had to pick them off me for minutes after - unsuccessfully I discovered whilst sitting on the sofa.
As I proceeded to remove the silk, it was like pulling a thread of cotton from a piece of clothing. I could see the clothing pull with the silk as its terrific adhesive qualities resisted; could hear the faint noise that came with it.
I gathered it all up in the same fashion one would when rolling up a piece of cotton thread - rolling it between thumb and index finger.
Now I have a small ball of pure spider silk. This from one or two threads. Amazing stuff.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
POWER TO THE PEOPLE
Banks eh, don't you just love 'em?
They are known as "the Big Four", here in Oz. And they are all - not to put too fine a point on it - fucking ruthless!
In fact, it's now the Big Three as, like a creeping oil slick, one of them has absorbed a smaller, less hardy in the current conditions minnow.
Their power increases while consumer choice narrows. And a consequence of these changes is the recent advisement that the strapped for cash leviathans are increasing ATM fees, by about 300% or something equally as extortionate. Going so far as to charge for checking account balances.
And at this point I've had whats known in the business as - enough. And I'm taking my money off them. Granted, I don't have a lot, but still...
Let me tell you about banks. In short, banks take your money and use it to make more. In itself, that's fair enough, but because they are lazy/incompetent/Devil's Spawn, they obviously don't make enough to satisfy their needs (overseas trips, yachts, penthouses etc.) and so apply those nefarious account-keeping fees - fees for your money which they use to make more money. We all know of these fees. They disgust us.
Therefore, it follows that if they have less to begin with, the less they can make (Dorothy! Better sell the yacht!).
Now, of course, they'll get wise to this eventually should people en masse start withdrawing all their money. And then it'll be, "sorry, you can't have your money - we're going to keep it. In fact, be advised, it's no longer your money - it's our money and we'll use it as we see fit until such times our future earnings are secure".
The secret obviously is to either a. sneak it away surreptitiously before they notice or b. not give it to them in the first place.
Either way, only rich people need banks. The tiny interest rates banks provide are worthless to sums less than 100,000 so if you're an ordinary Joe and have, say, 10,000, the interest per annum, providing you don't ever touch that sum is about 600 bucks. Whoopee-fuckin-doo! Just let me go out and buy a...TV, half a sofa...?
And you think it's safe?
I'll just keep my money and manage it myself thank you very much, and probably make more off 10Gs in a year than 600 poxy bucks - and no fees either.
So what I'm saying is...everybody whip out their money at the same time, sit back, and watch the fatcats scramble to jettison their ill-gotten gains whilst they fight amongst themselves like rats in a bag to avoid being clobbered by the falling rubble.
Now, THAT would be entertainment!
They are known as "the Big Four", here in Oz. And they are all - not to put too fine a point on it - fucking ruthless!
In fact, it's now the Big Three as, like a creeping oil slick, one of them has absorbed a smaller, less hardy in the current conditions minnow.
Their power increases while consumer choice narrows. And a consequence of these changes is the recent advisement that the strapped for cash leviathans are increasing ATM fees, by about 300% or something equally as extortionate. Going so far as to charge for checking account balances.
And at this point I've had whats known in the business as - enough. And I'm taking my money off them. Granted, I don't have a lot, but still...
Let me tell you about banks. In short, banks take your money and use it to make more. In itself, that's fair enough, but because they are lazy/incompetent/Devil's Spawn, they obviously don't make enough to satisfy their needs (overseas trips, yachts, penthouses etc.) and so apply those nefarious account-keeping fees - fees for your money which they use to make more money. We all know of these fees. They disgust us.
Therefore, it follows that if they have less to begin with, the less they can make (Dorothy! Better sell the yacht!).
Now, of course, they'll get wise to this eventually should people en masse start withdrawing all their money. And then it'll be, "sorry, you can't have your money - we're going to keep it. In fact, be advised, it's no longer your money - it's our money and we'll use it as we see fit until such times our future earnings are secure".
The secret obviously is to either a. sneak it away surreptitiously before they notice or b. not give it to them in the first place.
Either way, only rich people need banks. The tiny interest rates banks provide are worthless to sums less than 100,000 so if you're an ordinary Joe and have, say, 10,000, the interest per annum, providing you don't ever touch that sum is about 600 bucks. Whoopee-fuckin-doo! Just let me go out and buy a...TV, half a sofa...?
And you think it's safe?
I'll just keep my money and manage it myself thank you very much, and probably make more off 10Gs in a year than 600 poxy bucks - and no fees either.
So what I'm saying is...everybody whip out their money at the same time, sit back, and watch the fatcats scramble to jettison their ill-gotten gains whilst they fight amongst themselves like rats in a bag to avoid being clobbered by the falling rubble.
Now, THAT would be entertainment!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
VICTORIAN BUSHFIRES: WHO'S TO BLAME?
By now, pretty much the entire world has heard of the all-consuming bushfires that tore through several small towns, some not more than villages, in Victoria, Australia.
However they started (and I by no means have accepted that they were deliberately so) they ceased after razing 413,000 hectares of bush, and almost everything within - a total of 800 or so homes. Some homes were spared - by a mixture of accident and design.
So far, 181 people have died, and let's face it - they burnt to death, roasted alive in pure, shrieking agony.
The most intense period has now passed; smaller areas still burn but none are a threat.
Now the focus turns to how it happened. Fingers shot up and out as everyone pointed en masse. And most accusations are valid.
Ineptitude,
complacency,
Stupidity.
One man has been arrested and charged with several offences, including starting a bush fire. Causing death by fire and a few more the prosecutor can think of. An electricity company is also facing a class action suit, after it emerged one of their power poles collapsed and allegedly started one of the fires.
It must be said, though, that somewhere in the region of 40 or so fires raged around the Melbourne area. Are we to believe they all were either deliberately started or as a result of electricity poles? A bit of a stretch wouldn't you say?
And consider this: in temperatures sitting around 50 degrees celsius, all it takes to ignite bone dry tinder is a simple piece of broken glass at just the right angle to direct and intensify the blistering heat. Once started, as has been proven, it won't stop until the fuel runs out.
This is the reason this horrifying act of man and nature occurred.
The authorities were caught napping. A warning system trialled in Victoria wasn't implemented for reasons of privacy and the eventual victims were unaware of the danger approaching. In fact, of the 181 killed, the vast majority died whilst fleeing the flames, because they were driven by 100 kph winds and came up on homes rapidly. Leaving them with the only option to stay or flee and as people do - they panic. Panic kills.
This "napping" is similar to the American's Hurricane Katrina response. Currently our intrepid heroes are "backburning", a classic case of "closing the stable door after the horse has bolted", hence the allusion to Katrina.
Typical bloody experts.
The homeowners, for their part, enjoyed a self-imposed blissful ignorance. Like a mantra, they silently thought, "it'll never happen to me". All Australians think this at one time or another. They built their homes, or moved into one, virtually IN trees; the foliage so close as to touch the structure. Very beautiful indeed - until the worst happens then...
(FYI: Eucalypts, or Gum trees as they're otherwise known, have an oil in their leaves which roars like a blowtorch when consumed by fire). They sat silent, in the peaceful surrounds of their mountain bush paradise, while the trees shed. Gum trees, shed their bark every year. Resulting in this thick carpet of material roasted by the fierce heat of a summer Australian sun, and as flammable as petrol. To give an idea of how dry this material is, it's akin to walking on cornflakes. Everything is brittle, completely devoid of any moisture.
(Let me put it this way: ONE match - just one, could - and did, we're told, start this fire).
The local council, backed by Peter, "I used to be a rock star" Garrett, and his cretinous greenie mates in Parliament, refused to permit adequate clearing of risk material at a high risk distance from the given property. One homeowner, whose home it must be said was protected from any danger on account of the clearing the man had done, was fined 30,000 dollars by his Gestapo-like council for committing said clearing. To be fair though, if every man and his dog were to move into an area, and each cleared the requisite amount, then the bush itself would disappear (affecting soil structure, animal life etc.) Nevertheless, if it comes down to a few trees or my home...the jumped up little Hitlers at council can get fucked, frankly!
Ultimately...you're responsible for your own home. If you choose to move and/or build in an area that clearly constitutes "high risk", then it's on you to have an escape or defence plan if ever a blaze does erupt. A case in point has emerged where a man stayed with his home and armed with just wet towels and buckets of water, prevented it from being burnt down.. But for the main - people froze. And looked to their government to protect them. Are we learning yet, people? The above "ineptitude" and "stupidity" refers to the best efforts your government were able to provide. But man, do they have their hands on that stable door now!
Australians, white Australians, have lived on this continent for 200 years. Captain Cook, in his journal, made mention of the fires he saw from his ship off the coast, and in those days, fires of unimaginable magnitude raged through the continent. So in fact, before white man set a single foot on the continent, the existence of these fires was known.
After 200 years, one would imagine they would have figured a way to prevent or harness them. Actually, they will never be prevented. Fires are all part of the regeneration process. Postpone them this year and next year they'll return with a vengeance. Postpone 10, 20, 30 years...and we have the recent bushfires.
Ineptitude,
Complacency,
Stupidity.
Of course this will happen again. If they can't learn in 200 years, what makes anyone think this latest inferno's going make any difference.
And hey - the media's having a field day with it. A veritable smorgasboard of heroes, and tragedy; heartwarming fluffy animal stories; the mob raging for the hide of the alleged arsonist.
However they started (and I by no means have accepted that they were deliberately so) they ceased after razing 413,000 hectares of bush, and almost everything within - a total of 800 or so homes. Some homes were spared - by a mixture of accident and design.
So far, 181 people have died, and let's face it - they burnt to death, roasted alive in pure, shrieking agony.
The most intense period has now passed; smaller areas still burn but none are a threat.
Now the focus turns to how it happened. Fingers shot up and out as everyone pointed en masse. And most accusations are valid.
Ineptitude,
complacency,
Stupidity.
One man has been arrested and charged with several offences, including starting a bush fire. Causing death by fire and a few more the prosecutor can think of. An electricity company is also facing a class action suit, after it emerged one of their power poles collapsed and allegedly started one of the fires.
It must be said, though, that somewhere in the region of 40 or so fires raged around the Melbourne area. Are we to believe they all were either deliberately started or as a result of electricity poles? A bit of a stretch wouldn't you say?
And consider this: in temperatures sitting around 50 degrees celsius, all it takes to ignite bone dry tinder is a simple piece of broken glass at just the right angle to direct and intensify the blistering heat. Once started, as has been proven, it won't stop until the fuel runs out.
This is the reason this horrifying act of man and nature occurred.
The authorities were caught napping. A warning system trialled in Victoria wasn't implemented for reasons of privacy and the eventual victims were unaware of the danger approaching. In fact, of the 181 killed, the vast majority died whilst fleeing the flames, because they were driven by 100 kph winds and came up on homes rapidly. Leaving them with the only option to stay or flee and as people do - they panic. Panic kills.
This "napping" is similar to the American's Hurricane Katrina response. Currently our intrepid heroes are "backburning", a classic case of "closing the stable door after the horse has bolted", hence the allusion to Katrina.
Typical bloody experts.
The homeowners, for their part, enjoyed a self-imposed blissful ignorance. Like a mantra, they silently thought, "it'll never happen to me". All Australians think this at one time or another. They built their homes, or moved into one, virtually IN trees; the foliage so close as to touch the structure. Very beautiful indeed - until the worst happens then...
(FYI: Eucalypts, or Gum trees as they're otherwise known, have an oil in their leaves which roars like a blowtorch when consumed by fire). They sat silent, in the peaceful surrounds of their mountain bush paradise, while the trees shed. Gum trees, shed their bark every year. Resulting in this thick carpet of material roasted by the fierce heat of a summer Australian sun, and as flammable as petrol. To give an idea of how dry this material is, it's akin to walking on cornflakes. Everything is brittle, completely devoid of any moisture.
(Let me put it this way: ONE match - just one, could - and did, we're told, start this fire).
The local council, backed by Peter, "I used to be a rock star" Garrett, and his cretinous greenie mates in Parliament, refused to permit adequate clearing of risk material at a high risk distance from the given property. One homeowner, whose home it must be said was protected from any danger on account of the clearing the man had done, was fined 30,000 dollars by his Gestapo-like council for committing said clearing. To be fair though, if every man and his dog were to move into an area, and each cleared the requisite amount, then the bush itself would disappear (affecting soil structure, animal life etc.) Nevertheless, if it comes down to a few trees or my home...the jumped up little Hitlers at council can get fucked, frankly!
Ultimately...you're responsible for your own home. If you choose to move and/or build in an area that clearly constitutes "high risk", then it's on you to have an escape or defence plan if ever a blaze does erupt. A case in point has emerged where a man stayed with his home and armed with just wet towels and buckets of water, prevented it from being burnt down.. But for the main - people froze. And looked to their government to protect them. Are we learning yet, people? The above "ineptitude" and "stupidity" refers to the best efforts your government were able to provide. But man, do they have their hands on that stable door now!
Australians, white Australians, have lived on this continent for 200 years. Captain Cook, in his journal, made mention of the fires he saw from his ship off the coast, and in those days, fires of unimaginable magnitude raged through the continent. So in fact, before white man set a single foot on the continent, the existence of these fires was known.
After 200 years, one would imagine they would have figured a way to prevent or harness them. Actually, they will never be prevented. Fires are all part of the regeneration process. Postpone them this year and next year they'll return with a vengeance. Postpone 10, 20, 30 years...and we have the recent bushfires.
Ineptitude,
Complacency,
Stupidity.
Of course this will happen again. If they can't learn in 200 years, what makes anyone think this latest inferno's going make any difference.
And hey - the media's having a field day with it. A veritable smorgasboard of heroes, and tragedy; heartwarming fluffy animal stories; the mob raging for the hide of the alleged arsonist.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
IT'S NOT ABOUT MONEY
Peter Singer is an author. He's also described as, "one of the most influential thinkers of our time".
His most recent offering is entitled, "The Life You Can Save", is about saving money, essentially. And putting that money to a more magnanimous cause, such as saving a life. (Pass the bucket...).
"Around the world", he says, in response to a bottled water comment, "a billion people struggle to live each day on less than you paid for that drink".
Sure, I'll tell you what, Mr Singer, I'll just give all my money to the poor Africans and go live on the street. Find myself a nice brudge (hehe - that was a typo but then I thought I'd just leave it there for my Kiwi reader...) and live like a troll. Will that make you happy.
Notwithstanding that money, IS all that matters in the modern world (is there a better example of this than what's occurring now...?), throwing it at poverty isn't the answer. Socialism, as heart-warming as it may be, doesn't work. These people need to stop breeding like rabbits. Either that or accept that they're responsible for the life of that child - not some do-gooder on the other side of the world.
Take this American woman, whose IVF treatment resulted in eight more offspring - this on top of the six she already has. Are we seriously to believe this (unemployed) woman will cover the cost of bringing 14 children to adulthood, a cost currently standing at approximately 250,000 dollars a year?
Yeah, right on. You're not going to be scabbing of the system.
So, Mr Singer, I will continue to buy my tin of Coke and respectfully decline to save my 2 bucks in a wee tin to be sent dutifully to little Um Cawaba whose mother and father never once considered the ramifications of their rutting. And I'll give your book a miss, too.
His most recent offering is entitled, "The Life You Can Save", is about saving money, essentially. And putting that money to a more magnanimous cause, such as saving a life. (Pass the bucket...).
"Around the world", he says, in response to a bottled water comment, "a billion people struggle to live each day on less than you paid for that drink".
Sure, I'll tell you what, Mr Singer, I'll just give all my money to the poor Africans and go live on the street. Find myself a nice brudge (hehe - that was a typo but then I thought I'd just leave it there for my Kiwi reader...) and live like a troll. Will that make you happy.
Notwithstanding that money, IS all that matters in the modern world (is there a better example of this than what's occurring now...?), throwing it at poverty isn't the answer. Socialism, as heart-warming as it may be, doesn't work. These people need to stop breeding like rabbits. Either that or accept that they're responsible for the life of that child - not some do-gooder on the other side of the world.
Take this American woman, whose IVF treatment resulted in eight more offspring - this on top of the six she already has. Are we seriously to believe this (unemployed) woman will cover the cost of bringing 14 children to adulthood, a cost currently standing at approximately 250,000 dollars a year?
Yeah, right on. You're not going to be scabbing of the system.
So, Mr Singer, I will continue to buy my tin of Coke and respectfully decline to save my 2 bucks in a wee tin to be sent dutifully to little Um Cawaba whose mother and father never once considered the ramifications of their rutting. And I'll give your book a miss, too.
FROM THE SUNDAY RAG
"WOMEN ARE DRIVING THE DOWNSHIFT IN CAR SIZE"
This is news apparently? Not to me - I've been saying this for years now. That women are running the world. Maybe not at CEO level, but undoubtedly at "grass roots" level. And it's not just in terms of cars. Where families live; what they eat; wear, go on holiday - these are all determined by the females in families (presumably while the "male" (snigger snigger) is down at the hairdressers with his girlfriends getting his hair done.
Here's something else too. The article that follows the above headline comprises 8 columns. Not one mention of the point is made until the 5th. The writer just waffles on about who's selling the most and how the industry has collapsed in the wake of the downturn. Blah, blah, blah, spacefiller.
This alteration in decision making started long before the current crisis; in point of fact, this shift in control began some 10-15 years ago.
Actually, in a related matter, NDT (Nasal Delivery Technique) is an impotence prevention medicine for those "men" who are having trouble "keeping their end up" as it were.
The manufacturers of this product, when it first emerged, directed the ads at men. Presumably men, for whatever reason (embarrassment, denial, whichever) ignored them. So the ad companies have now switched their focus to the ladies, saying things like, "would you like a deeper more complete orgasm? Tired of waiting for your man to be a better lover? Try our new Nasal Delivery Technique and achieve the orgasm you've been searching for!" LOL Oh man. Hoho.
Men eh? Hahahahaha!
Funny thing is ladies, this is all your own doing. All these years of female empowerment have gelded your stud. Well done. No, seriously, lol, top marks! Hoho.
Oh man. Stop it, you're killing me with this shit.
This is news apparently? Not to me - I've been saying this for years now. That women are running the world. Maybe not at CEO level, but undoubtedly at "grass roots" level. And it's not just in terms of cars. Where families live; what they eat; wear, go on holiday - these are all determined by the females in families (presumably while the "male" (snigger snigger) is down at the hairdressers with his girlfriends getting his hair done.
Here's something else too. The article that follows the above headline comprises 8 columns. Not one mention of the point is made until the 5th. The writer just waffles on about who's selling the most and how the industry has collapsed in the wake of the downturn. Blah, blah, blah, spacefiller.
This alteration in decision making started long before the current crisis; in point of fact, this shift in control began some 10-15 years ago.
Actually, in a related matter, NDT (Nasal Delivery Technique) is an impotence prevention medicine for those "men" who are having trouble "keeping their end up" as it were.
The manufacturers of this product, when it first emerged, directed the ads at men. Presumably men, for whatever reason (embarrassment, denial, whichever) ignored them. So the ad companies have now switched their focus to the ladies, saying things like, "would you like a deeper more complete orgasm? Tired of waiting for your man to be a better lover? Try our new Nasal Delivery Technique and achieve the orgasm you've been searching for!" LOL Oh man. Hoho.
Men eh? Hahahahaha!
Funny thing is ladies, this is all your own doing. All these years of female empowerment have gelded your stud. Well done. No, seriously, lol, top marks! Hoho.
Oh man. Stop it, you're killing me with this shit.
FOR KB
The Boys buggered off into the bush this morning. You'll probably be aware of the heatwave NSW is currently experiencing. Mid to high 40's in degrees. Brutal.
Anyway, they eventually reappeared about 2 hours later; Scoob first, puffing and panting but not overly so followed by Mutley about 15 minutes later...
...And he was fucked. I mean really knackered by the look of things. So much so that his panting had an "edge" to it - a hoarseness I've never seen nor heard before and his heart must've been working at 200 beats a minute.
Here we get to the point; his tongue was noticeably redder than usual (usually it, and in fact his gums, is a healthy pink). It also was lolling out of his mouth further than usual and had expanded at the end to approximately twice the normal width. In doing so it had reduced its thickness by half so in effect it was a wide, thin sliver. It was red because it was engorged with blood trying to cool near the surface of the tongue and the change in size and thickness increased the surface area and decreased the distance the blood vessels were from said surface.
All combined in cooling the blood.
All the while he's panting like his life depends on it. So hot and bothered he appeared, he couldn't even drink from his bowl for more than a few laps at a time, just enough to take on some desperately needed fluid while cooling the tongue, then would return to the verging on apoplectic panting (I really thought he was going to expire so frantic was he. Shit, I know if I was breathing like that, a heart attack would have eventuated).
After about 20 minutes of this, his rate began to slow, his tongue shrunk back to it's normal size and returned to the normal pink.
Was he walking around leaving small damp patches on the floor from his "sweating feet"? No - don't be absurd.
Let me tell you about sweat, KB. We (humans - for the purposes of this explanation. Horses as well - and no doubt other species) sweat to cool down. We do this by sweating obviously; the fluid lies on the surface of the skin and acts very like ether (if you remember your schooling, the ether experiment was where a small amount of the liquid was placed on an area of skin which would immediately feel cool...).
Human sweat works in the same fashion - i.e. cooling the skin, and the blood rushes to the surface of the cooling skin to take advantage. Similar to a car radiator where the water circulates and is cooled by the wind.
This is why animals with heavy, uniform body hair don't sweat. I will concede, however, despite having no evidence per se, that there may be sweat glands on the feet but they are so insignificant as to be pointless in terms of heat control.
So, your source? Go up to him/her, slap him/her about the head - one of those "THWACK" glancing blows that leaves the hair sticking up in an odd fashion, and say, "see next time you think about opening your mouth - don't!"
Be good KB - don't believe everything you read - or hear (except of course here, where you'll find the Gospel!)
Anyway, they eventually reappeared about 2 hours later; Scoob first, puffing and panting but not overly so followed by Mutley about 15 minutes later...
...And he was fucked. I mean really knackered by the look of things. So much so that his panting had an "edge" to it - a hoarseness I've never seen nor heard before and his heart must've been working at 200 beats a minute.
Here we get to the point; his tongue was noticeably redder than usual (usually it, and in fact his gums, is a healthy pink). It also was lolling out of his mouth further than usual and had expanded at the end to approximately twice the normal width. In doing so it had reduced its thickness by half so in effect it was a wide, thin sliver. It was red because it was engorged with blood trying to cool near the surface of the tongue and the change in size and thickness increased the surface area and decreased the distance the blood vessels were from said surface.
All combined in cooling the blood.
All the while he's panting like his life depends on it. So hot and bothered he appeared, he couldn't even drink from his bowl for more than a few laps at a time, just enough to take on some desperately needed fluid while cooling the tongue, then would return to the verging on apoplectic panting (I really thought he was going to expire so frantic was he. Shit, I know if I was breathing like that, a heart attack would have eventuated).
After about 20 minutes of this, his rate began to slow, his tongue shrunk back to it's normal size and returned to the normal pink.
Was he walking around leaving small damp patches on the floor from his "sweating feet"? No - don't be absurd.
Let me tell you about sweat, KB. We (humans - for the purposes of this explanation. Horses as well - and no doubt other species) sweat to cool down. We do this by sweating obviously; the fluid lies on the surface of the skin and acts very like ether (if you remember your schooling, the ether experiment was where a small amount of the liquid was placed on an area of skin which would immediately feel cool...).
Human sweat works in the same fashion - i.e. cooling the skin, and the blood rushes to the surface of the cooling skin to take advantage. Similar to a car radiator where the water circulates and is cooled by the wind.
This is why animals with heavy, uniform body hair don't sweat. I will concede, however, despite having no evidence per se, that there may be sweat glands on the feet but they are so insignificant as to be pointless in terms of heat control.
So, your source? Go up to him/her, slap him/her about the head - one of those "THWACK" glancing blows that leaves the hair sticking up in an odd fashion, and say, "see next time you think about opening your mouth - don't!"
Be good KB - don't believe everything you read - or hear (except of course here, where you'll find the Gospel!)
Saturday, February 07, 2009
MICHAEL PHELPS AND THE BONG
Michael Phelps, the American Olympic swimmer who won something like eight gold medals and set as many records at the 2008 Olympics in Bejing, has been caught bang to rights smoking a bong. The picture was published in Britain's News of the World newspaper which frankly is a hair's breadth above toilet paper. But anything for a scoop, right?
I have to say though, the entire phrase, "smoking a bong" brings a smile to my, and most peoples' if they're honest, face. I mean, how can anyone take such a chucklesome statement seriously? Smoking a bong indeed, hoho.
Well someone has. In fact, several someone's has, not least of which, Kellogs, the cereal company and Phelps' multi-million (reportedly) dollar sponsor. They have decided Phelps' actions are not consistent with the image they present and are not renewing the swimmer's contract after it expires at the end of February. (Mind you, come the next Olympic Games and considering how much money Phelps makes them, money, as per usual, will talk and no doubt he'll find his way back when the suits at Kelloggs realise what they've done).
Swimming USA have also slapped a 3 month ban on him. However, several of his other sponsors have stuck by him presumably treating it as it is - that being, just a bong. It's hardly mainlining heroin.
Phelps himself has come out and shown the appropriate amount of contrition, admitting, under obvious yet unspoken duress, that he made a bad decision and that he nevertheless intends to continue training during the forced exclusion.
The funniest part of it all - other than the whole "bong" thing (hoho), is the one person he is most terrified of facing - his mother.
Hey Mike, give your Ma a full and unfettered explanation, I've no doubt she'll understand. Kelloggs? Tell them to get fucked! After you've set another plethora of world records, they'll be on their collective hands and knees begging to sponsor you again.
I have to say though, the entire phrase, "smoking a bong" brings a smile to my, and most peoples' if they're honest, face. I mean, how can anyone take such a chucklesome statement seriously? Smoking a bong indeed, hoho.
Well someone has. In fact, several someone's has, not least of which, Kellogs, the cereal company and Phelps' multi-million (reportedly) dollar sponsor. They have decided Phelps' actions are not consistent with the image they present and are not renewing the swimmer's contract after it expires at the end of February. (Mind you, come the next Olympic Games and considering how much money Phelps makes them, money, as per usual, will talk and no doubt he'll find his way back when the suits at Kelloggs realise what they've done).
Swimming USA have also slapped a 3 month ban on him. However, several of his other sponsors have stuck by him presumably treating it as it is - that being, just a bong. It's hardly mainlining heroin.
Phelps himself has come out and shown the appropriate amount of contrition, admitting, under obvious yet unspoken duress, that he made a bad decision and that he nevertheless intends to continue training during the forced exclusion.
The funniest part of it all - other than the whole "bong" thing (hoho), is the one person he is most terrified of facing - his mother.
Hey Mike, give your Ma a full and unfettered explanation, I've no doubt she'll understand. Kelloggs? Tell them to get fucked! After you've set another plethora of world records, they'll be on their collective hands and knees begging to sponsor you again.
HAVE A GO AT THIS CRAZY BITCH
Dominique Fisher and Wayne Robinson hooked up in a bar in a bar in Blackpool, England. As one does, they partied into the night, went back to her place, and spent the night together, snorting coke along the way.
All good.
They went their separate ways the following morning and later that day bumped into one another again.
More of the same ensued; more coke - with added valium chasers, hit the sheets and pass out.
Except this time when Wayne awoke, he found Dominique, while he was wasted, had taken a Stanley knife and cut her name into the flesh of his arm. Reasonably tidily too, I'd have to say - remember, the nutbag is off her head! (And Dominique, frankly, is no short name either, it's worth mentioning, I mean, it's hardly Kate or Emma or Jo, for example, and lots of curved letters...).
Seemingly on a roll and stirred on by her handywork, she proceeded to cut a tribal pattern on his left arm and a star on his back.
At this point I feel compelled to ask - exactly how wasted was he? Sounds like she could've had his nuts and he wouldn't've awoke. So there y'go kids, another reason not to take drugs!
Mr Robinson says he awoke to find himself covered in blood with Dominique snoring away next to him (no mention is made of the whereabouts of the "tool". (I'm not sure what would upset me more, the slashes on my body or the woman who the night before in my addled state had seemed like a goddess, snoring away like a fat trucker!)
Needless to say, our "body artist" was arrested and is currently on bail pending her trial. She claims he consented. He, obviously, denies such claims. (Well, he would, wouldn't he?)
Crazy, crazy woman.
All good.
They went their separate ways the following morning and later that day bumped into one another again.
More of the same ensued; more coke - with added valium chasers, hit the sheets and pass out.
Except this time when Wayne awoke, he found Dominique, while he was wasted, had taken a Stanley knife and cut her name into the flesh of his arm. Reasonably tidily too, I'd have to say - remember, the nutbag is off her head! (And Dominique, frankly, is no short name either, it's worth mentioning, I mean, it's hardly Kate or Emma or Jo, for example, and lots of curved letters...).
Seemingly on a roll and stirred on by her handywork, she proceeded to cut a tribal pattern on his left arm and a star on his back.
At this point I feel compelled to ask - exactly how wasted was he? Sounds like she could've had his nuts and he wouldn't've awoke. So there y'go kids, another reason not to take drugs!
Mr Robinson says he awoke to find himself covered in blood with Dominique snoring away next to him (no mention is made of the whereabouts of the "tool". (I'm not sure what would upset me more, the slashes on my body or the woman who the night before in my addled state had seemed like a goddess, snoring away like a fat trucker!)
Needless to say, our "body artist" was arrested and is currently on bail pending her trial. She claims he consented. He, obviously, denies such claims. (Well, he would, wouldn't he?)
Crazy, crazy woman.
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