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Some rather amusing billboard concepts for the British election at


Sydney Morning Herald online is covering a story on some MP that is upset that some other MP took a photo of him sleeping during session. There are apparently strict rules on photographing parliament. However none governing phone cameras. I’ve got an idea: instead of being angry over the bastard that took the photo, why not not go to sleep during speeches delivered by visiting dignitaries?

Slashdot is reporting a link from Wired describing some of the weirdest papers ever actually published. My favourites:

Swearing as a response to pain. (NeuroReport)

Pigeons can discriminate “good” and “bad” paintings by children. (Animal Cognition)

Are full or empty beer bottles sturdier and does their fracture-threshold suffice to break the human skull? (Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine)

I have reason to believe that the first article was conceived after reading the third.

The son of the devil’s spawn

White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel was recently described as the son of the devil’s spawn. Rahm apparently used an interested arena for venting: the ‘boys’ showers (where venting is of course an OHS must) at the House of Representatives gym and berating him for being a coward. All this while presumably both men were stark naked. 

Now this outright public slander of Emanuel is not as bad as it sounds. Listen to what the former senator called him: the son of the devil’s spawn. According to this, by rights he can only claim to be the grandson of Satan. And everyone knows that’s nothing like the real deal. This paints a completely different picture, and was clearly intended by departing senator Massa as a means of softening the blow from an otherwise heated account of Emanuels’ yichut (pedigree).

In response to the admittedly mild-flavoured accusation of pointy-eared, fork-tongued, pitchfork-clutching, tail-bearing, red-bodied-army familial ties, the White House plainly overreacted, and instead of downplaying the alleged pink-fit, succeeded in a disproportional white-wash of the story, hosing down the friction, creating thick steam in the press room – which of course is the type of scenario wherein this fracas all began.

What would prank calls have been like if they had telephones in times gone past?

“Whither art thou, BOB? Thine carriage doth pop
And sizzle with flame and buggery beyond th’ bounds of home”

“Grok. Urk urk – FAAAA! Ribble dibble Snuk Snuk Grinkle zoob! Frunk! Frunk Wambaaaa!”

“Four score and twenty years ago there was a man that rather violently intervened in the affairs of a Mr. Plunkett, your mothers’ forebear. His progeny has made his way to our grand state of Massachusetts, carrying with him the same bloody intent. Be warned, Goody Thurston, and take good heed. Prepare the barricades for he stalks town tonight!”

“<translated from Russian> Borya – don’t look now… but there’s a Siberian Tiger outside your window – I can see him from my place.”

“<Hungarian> Nos Veratu visited my bedroom last night. He whispered three things in my ear; that he’d come all the way from Transylvania, your name, and then said something I didn’t quite catch about tomorrow – and left. Have a good night’s sleep, Mariska.”

Track her brain cell count on Jon Stewart. it’s in negative territory. Do you understand the ramifications of that? It means, like a black hole, she pulls in all the brain cells of anyone unfortunate enough to watch and listen to her, and sends them hurtling towards the endless void that is the centre of her head.

Hell is a TV or radio with which you may not channel surf

There is nothing like the daily dose of psychological trauma dished out by the office radio in customer service. Meant as background music yet tuned into the current droning, talentless shrieks, buzzes, yelling, dentist’s drills, unruly and wholly unnecessary melisma demonstrations, constant-intentional-breakings-of-one’s-voice-as-a-substitute-for-being-able-to-sing, black muthas that have no place in Australian culture whatsoever, and all-round bass-less tripe that pollutes pop radio stations – I ask you: is there anything more painful than enduring 7 hours of such debilitating torture?

Like free-to-air TV (and, true, most pay TV), I feel dumber, having listened to it. It’s like Groundhog Day, without the salvation at the end.

You can’t touch it, because it’s background music belonging to another nearby department. And you cannot put headphones or earplugs in because you’re at work and need to be accessable.

You don’t want to play your own music (in an effort to educate the masses, not just save you from externally induced mental retardation), because it’s really not your place.

Some days you get desperate. Others, you feel like crying. Picture a nuclear wasteland. This is what we must avoid. But — HOW?

Make no mistake. This is war. This war has been fought for thousands of years. This war is comprised of nothing more and nothing less than the neverending battle for your sanity. They fired the first shots. And we do not forget.


It’s up to people like me to protect you from them. You have something – we – have something that they want. They can’t have it. Not while I can still type.


We are The Twenty Percent. And we will not yield to the Hordes of the Eighty.