News you can't necessarily use

While I doubt this will cause a significant change of direction among automotive safety engineers, it seems that Silicone Breast Implants Save Lives.

Forget airbags, silicone breasts will do 1 hour, 21 minutes ago

A woman in the northern Bulgarian town of Ruse has survived a car crash thanks to her silicone breasts which acted as an airbag, a newspaper has reported.

The 24-year-old ran through a red light and crashed her car into another vehicle at a busy crossroad in the middle of town Saturday, the daily Standart said Monday.

"The two cars were crumpled past recognition in the crash but the woman's silicone breasts acted as airbags and saved her life," Standart wrote, citing eyewitness reports.

But survival as well as beauty comes at a price as the woman burst her silicon implants in the crash

image

Who knew?

[wik] Lucky for her, she hit the dash tits-first

[alsø wik] Either that, or she had silicone implants inserted in a non-traditional manner

Posted by Patton Patton on   |   § 7

Precognitive Dog

My grandmother used to say that everyone had a special purpose. In our family, this has come to mean that everyone has a superpower. Not necessarily a really cool special power like regeneration or flying or being bulletproof, but rather an odd or uncanny ability that can only be explained by reference to Grandma's saying. I have finally figured out what my dog's special power is.

He has the amazing ability to see a short distance into the future to determine what I or my wife will be doing, so that he can go there and lay down to sleep.

Posted by Buckethead Buckethead on   |   § 4

The Queen's English as a Second Language

About 2 months ago I had a phone interview with an organization in the UK. More precisely the interview was with an HR firm that organization had hired to conduct this particular search. I didn't believe anything would come of it- a belief that was borne out as it happens- and that's not really my point. My point is that it was funny getting past the language barrier.

The woman running the search was supposed to call at 11 local on the designated day. Her assistant called instead, and explained that the boss was running late with other calls and, if it was quite alright, she would like to call back in 20 minutes. That’s the translated version.

At that moment though I was having trouble:

"Yes?" [Me, in standard by-God Amurrican English. Since I was expecting this call, I wasn’t as abrupt as I usually am. But I still answered like I had just eaten a rare steak. I’m not sure why, but that was an important image to convey telephonically.]

"Hello, is this Geeklethal?" [Him, with the Queen's diction, polite and helpful with just a wisp of priss.]

"Yes."

"Geeklethal, this is Mott Hooply with Frothingsham Limited. I gribniff the eltra docalax for katy in the hibell and foralently."

"...?" [The ellipsis, here, means near total incomprehension: face pinched; eyes shut tight; lips frowning with grim tension like I was a mathematician working on fucking Enigma and the outcome of the Battle of the Atlantic hung on whether I could just get the damned key and I knew I was close, but I couldn’t get my mind working on the problem because all I had going on in my skull was my own voice yelling ‘FUCKING *WHAT* did he just say!?’ So, that’s what those three dots meant there. Moving on.]

"If that's alright...?"

"Ah, ok..." [As I slowly worked on a general sketch of comprehension, with growing awareness of an awkwardly long pause over what was probably a very routine and undemanding question.]

"And shall she criff at this number, or friddle theraflu alta?"

"....Ahhh, this number's............ffffine?" [Near-total guess, there.]

"Splendid!"

Phew, this is going to be harder than I thought, um, I thought.

When she did call 20 minutes later, it again took a few minutes to shift my eargears into British but more surely and with less grinding than with her assistant. At first it was like I was speaking to her on the Moon, with a gap between her question and my answer. But the gap was due not to distance but me "translating" what she'd asked me. I had to listen carefully, wait for my on-board translation matrices to filter it, re-understand it in American, and go from there. Later I realized that my brain does precisely the same thing, in the same way, when trying to navigate a conversation in German- starts out ok, readily grasping the first few words in the sentence, then falls off a cliff, then comes many seconds, sometimes minutes, to recreate in my mind what that was all supposed to have meant- if I ever even get an answer. Funny it was the same in unfamiliar English too. It smoothed out after a bit, and by the end was cruising right along, but never quite got the ease of comprehension we all have with each other as native American speakers.

So I basically had to blather about how dynamite I am, which if you've never done it on the phone in this manner is hugely awkward. It is in such a situation that we realize how much we rely on body language, eye contact, and a dozen other physical cues from our audience that we use in turn to modify our speech. Such body language is probably not so very culturally distinct as speech.

Compounding that awkwardness was the distinct sensation that the more I spoke, the more I felt that what she heard on the other end was not my disciplined, thoughtful responses to her questions- themselves the result of careful reflection on a brief but respectable career - but more like "UUU HUH HEEILK YES'M I SHO' NUFF AM DA MAN FO' DA JOB". I felt as if I was from the deepest piney woods of Fuckbuckle, Arkansas, was applying for the presidency of Harvard, and any second would ask the women on the hiring committee who was keeping the house all day if they were here?

Well, since I wasn’t subsequently invited to England for a real interview, I didn’t have to figure out how I was going to communicate with them on their home turf in their own language. But after that call I could see some QESL (Queen’s English as a Second Language) coursework in my future.

Posted by GeekLethal GeekLethal on   |   § 3

Important Ministry Announcement

Throughout history, the hunt has traditionally been central to high culture. Hunting rights were reserved to the aristocracy, and poachers were punished viciously for the least infraction. Hunting was, among other things, a proxy for war training, a test of manhood, and a means of ridding the world of dangerous predators. In modern times, as our feeble replacement for warrior nobility has moved on to other pursuits – literary criticism, cultivating effete mannerisms, the collection of third world handicrafts, posturing “interest” in obscure causes – the hunt has declined in importance. Nowadays, hunting is largely the preserve of the descendents of those who were once hanged for snatching the King’s deer. The hunt has now become hunting. A blue collar pursuit, déclassé, and if noticed at all by the guardians of modern culture, regarded with little short of revulsion and nausea.

That this is emblematic of our decline as a civilization is clear. It is also clear that something must be done. In considering this matter, the ministers felt that in reviving the Hunt, we must attempt to recapture the best aspects of the Hunt of old. It must be a test of courage, man vs. the most dangerous of beasts. It must have an element of public service – we must, in killing, provide life and safety for the little people who are hungry and, indeed, at risk from the hunger of the wild. The Hunt must refine those skills most useful in war, so that we, and those who participate, will be better prepared for the coming apocalypse. Finally, it must offer up to heaven a sacrifice of blood, cruelty, torment and incense.

In pursuit of these aims, therefore, The Ministry of Minor Perfidy is now accepting reservations for the first annual Ministry Manatee Hunt and Barbecue.

The Manatee is renowned throughout the world for its cunning, viciousness and utter lethality. It is a known, historical fact that the first two Spanish expeditions to Florida were consumed to the last by the angry, territorial Manatee. Early settlers introduced the Alligator in the hopes of limiting, at least somewhat, the depredations of packs of hunting Manatees that once plagued that region. For several centuries, Spanish settlers lived in fear of the man-eating Manatee, slowly learning from the local aborigines (colloquially known as “Indians”) methods of avoiding the vacas del agua del asesino del pavor.

image

Manatees teach their young to hunt

It wasn’t until General Andrew Jackson was sent to the newly acquired Florida territory to deal with the Manatee menace (and, incidentally, put down the Seminole rebellion) that people could leave their homes in safety, and live without fear of continual harassment and death at the teeth and claws of hunting packs of Manatees. Jackson organized the largest Manatee Hunt in history: using 800 Federal troops and over a thousand Georgia Militia, along with locally conscripted “volunteers” he started in central Florida and swept outwards in a giant spiral, driving the Manatee before them. Great was the slaughter of Manatee on that day.

Since then, the Manatee have survived, much reduced in number and wary of man. Only occasionally do they stir from their watery lairs to snatch a small child or a careless senior citizen. Most of these attacks are ascribed to alligators, which no doubt strikes a dark chord of humor in the Manatee.

We will not be orchestrating a Hunt on the scale of General Jackson. There are simply not enough Manatees to make it feasible, and in addition, a close reading of Florida’s trespassing statutes suggests that it could expose the Ministry to significant legal risk. Instead, we envision a smaller, more convivial hunting party of 8-20 participants, and the Hunt will take place on private land, free from the interference of do-gooding environmentalists and nosey park rangers. The only remaining details to be hammered out are tactical.

There are several schools of thought on the best means to hunt the savage Manatee.

The Manatee, as is well known, fools its prey by taking on the appearance of a placid, slow moving blubbery creature. When the victim, convinced of the harmlessness of the Manatee, looks away, then it charges, lunging out of the water in a horrific display of razor sharp claws and bone-crushing teeth.

The full grown Manatee has several modes of attack at its disposal.

  • The smooth, rubbery skin of the Manatee conceals muscles of surprising strength. The Manatee can literally leap from the water, landing on its target and crushing it instantly with its bulk.
  • The Manatee’s jaws have a bite strength of almost a thousand pounds per square inch, stronger than the Mako shark. Its jaws can sever an arm or leg almost instantaneously, or pop a human skull like a watermelon at a Gallagher show.
  • Concealed in the seemingly limp front flippers, the Manatee hides fourteen razor-sharp, five inch claws. These talons can eviscerate a man in a fraction of second.
  • It is a little known fact that the Manatee, like the dolphin, can emit a high-pitched screetch that is capable of stunning, for a brief time, creatures up to man size. This attack works best in the water, as the air is a much less efficient medium for sound.

Since the Great Hunt almost two centuries ago, the Manatee has learned to be a solitary hunter, relying more on stealth and cunning than the cooperative hunting pack tactics of its glory days. The Manatee is now a solitary creature, reclusive and secretive, except when they put on displays to fool the weak minded.

Vicious Manatee

The Manatee Prepares to Strike

With this in mind, we can determine the best means of attack. The traditional means, sanctified by time and papal decree, is to sneak up on the Manatee and kill him with a blow to the head with a blunt object, such as a tire iron. The Ministry reveres tradition of course, but this method appears to be a trifle inelegant. We will leave it on the table for discussion, however.

The second method is also time-tested, though of more recent provenance. This involves attacking the Manatee as it surfaces with a large power boat. The real skill involves hitting the Manatee with multiple passes, to create the figure-eight pattern that proves it was an intentional kill, and not the result of driving a boat while drunk. The Ministry does not approve of this method, as it is not sporting, manly, or fair.

The final method under discussion is the use of firearms. The Ministry has secured the use of number of a Browning M2 .50 Machine Gun, and proposes this as the means of choice for our Hunt. Given the relative ferocity of the Manatee, we feel that this weapon offers the best balance between risk and carnage for both the hunter and the Manatee. (Each hunter will be permitted a native bearer/loader.) After all, we do want to give the Manatee a fighting chance.

There will be a preparatory meeting a week before the expedition, when Ministry representatives and the participants can hash out the final details. Native bearer/loaders will also be assigned at this time, along with code names and individual itineraries. If you wish to travel to the hunt site with more than one other person, special dispensation must be obtained, as we do not wish to make local law enforcement officials at all suspicious.

Posted by Buckethead Buckethead on   |   § 4

Um, Ick.

I'm sure that people who invent new kinds of robots all have perfectly well-adjusted social lives, play some ball on the weekends, take the kids to the movies, get together with friends and cook up a big batch of corn smut chili. I'm sure that's the case.

I've heard of robots that learn, robots that walk, robots that build cars, Real Dolls, robots that turn into cars, robots that act as companions to lonely people, and even teledildonics. All very exciting developments in the world of technology, except for that one of those things is incurably foul.

And I'm sure that the minds that came up with the innovation of making robots with soft, human-like skin are perfectly together people with sane minds and clean habits who have never even heard of that one incurably foul thing and thought that it needed to be a robot.

I'm just saying. I don't know what's creepier; a killer robot that mimics a person, or the weird shit that lonely people in their basements are thinking right now.

I think I need to go take a walk. And a shower. And a brain enema.

Posted by Johno Johno on   |   § 4

Friday Funtime Quizzery

Wait...not prone to seething rants and anger...? Well, I'm skeptical then of this quiz' accuracy. But since the code didn't need to be unfucked, I'm going with it.



I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled;
Not prone to overstated gushing praise
Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled
With overstretched opinions to rephrase;
But on the other hand, not fond of fools,
And thus, not fond of people, on the whole;
And holding to the sound and useful rules,
Not those that seek unjustified control.
I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least,
I think I am, and usually I'm right);
And when more ostentatious types have ceased,
I'm still around, and doing, still, alright.
In short, I'm calm and rational and stable -
Or, well, I am, as much as I am able.
What Poetry Form Are You?
Posted by GeekLethal GeekLethal on   |   § 2

The Critic

From Thursday's Washington Post:


THE NEW SEASON TV Preview

Look Homely, Angel
ABC's 'Ugly Betty' Is Plainly Lovable

By Tom Shales
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, September 28, 2006; Page C01

"Ugly Betty" isn't just entertainment, it's therapy. Nirvana therapy. It's happiness in a tube, or rather The Tube. It's a pint of Ben & Jerry's with no fat or calories. It's tuning in to "The View" to discover they all have laryngitis. It's Florida without those disgusting bugs.
...


Mmmmkay... When I walked into the house Thursday evening, Ugly Betty was what the girls were watching. Aside from the fact that it was arguably too adult for my 11 year old to watch ("Too many icky parts!"), it was one of those painful 5 minute periods where I see a show and immediately tune it out as not worth any further attention. A total piece of crap, even before the girls had a chance to vote. Who gets off on watching the lead character be serially treated like crap by a bunch of hoes?

I had no idea, until they ladies stopped watching it, what the they were watching, and hadn't even heard of this new show, Ugly Betty. I thought, in the short time I saw it, that it was some spiced-up made-for-Disney movie, thus guaranteeing that it would be a one-time event in our house. It just had that look to it. Luckily, even though it was a series, not a movie, the girls were pretty merciless ("needlessly catty!", "deep, evil plot twist at the end!", "totally derivative of a bunch of earlier 'Girl Meets World' movies!"). It seems we won't be cursed, in my house, with its ongoing episodes between now and its cancellation.

So there's that.

But when I looked at what the WaPo section of my Google home page showed, I saw a story about a review of the series, excerpted above. I took a look, assuming that whomever reviewed it would have roughly the same views as those on the softer side of my house. Newp.

Gushing review. "...therapy", "Nirvana therapy", "happiness in a tube", "a pint of Ben & Jerry's with no fat or calories".

What the hell? Who could possibly think such a thing? And then I looked at the header over the review:

image

Well, never mind - that explains everything.

[wik] Hey, for all I know, he's otherwise a genius. (That is a "he", isn't it?) I'm only casting aspersions on this particular critique.

[alsø wik] Of course I can make such a catty swipe, because I'm perfect. Except for my yoooge head. He's apparently got more hair than I, but he also has more chins.

[alsø alsø wik] As la mia figlia would say "Woof!"

Posted by Patton Patton on   |   § 3

Filth and smut!

A good buddy of mine (who, it should be noted, would be amused and bemused if I were to say to him, "10-4, good buddy," for he is not the sort of person to whom such an address is naturally directed, but still believes himself so in his more delusional moments) has hatched a biennial tradition that I'm proud to be part of.

Two years ago, for reasons unknown, the phrase "chicken cheesecake" became current among my good buddy's crowd, mainly to refer to someone whose skirt (metaphorically speaking) was too long for them to successfully complete a manly task. A puss. A pansy. A milquetoast.

The phrase stuck around in my good buddy's head long enough for him to decide it'd be a great idea to actually make chicken cheesecake and have a bake-off.

Blech.

I came in last in that competition, because I chose poorly. I made a nice three-layered Italian-style ricotta cheesecake, the bottom layer flavored with sundried tomatoes and herbs (basil, thyme, oregano), the middle layer being diced sauteed chicken, and the top layer flavored with a basil and spinach pesto. It was a nice red-and-green cross section that actually looked appetizing on the plate. Tasted pretty good too. Unfortunately, Italian-style ricotta cheesecake has a grainy texture very different from the smooth cream cheese New York model, and that texture in a savory application with big flavors absolutely killed me.

The winner was some poor schlub who'd made a poundcake with cream cheese and a couple pureed chicken breasts whizzed into the eggs and milk; you couldn't taste no chicken in that! The runner up, my good buddy, made a yellow cake and festooned the top with shake and bake chicken strips. A cheesecake? Only in the broadest possible sense.

Clearly, I wuz robbed.

This year, the big event is a chili cookoff in which 40% of the score is original and creative use of ingredients. I feel pretty good about my chances; I've got one hell of a secret ingredient; corn smut.

Better known to the Azetcs and their Mexican descendents as "huitlacoche," corn smut is a grey-black fungus that infects ears of corn (maize), growing in and around kernels into distended blobby mutant shapes that look like a particularly malevolent cancer. I hear it tastes great; smoky, woody, sweet and corny.

And wouldn't you know, you can get it through Amazon.

My plan for Corn Smut Chili

1 lb stew beef
1 lb pork butt
1 lg onion, roasted
2 bell peppers, ditto
2 poblano peppers, ditto
much garlic
vegetable stock
beef stock
beer
1 28-oz can tomatoes
1-2 Tbsp chili powder
2 Tbsp cumin
1 Tbsp dry mexican oregano
2 tsp dry thyme
1 tsp dry epazote
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp cocoa
1/2 tsp allspice
1 tsp coriander
3 Tbsp chipotle peppers in adobo
3 cups roasted frozen corn
1 lb dry black beans, cooked
1 12 oz can pozole (lime-cured whole corn kernels)
2 7.6 oz cans huitlacoche
2 dashes liquid smoke

I may also try to find room for two cups of blueberries in there, because why the hell not? That all sort of depends how the master recipe comes out.

I plan to bribe the judge by serving the chili with a garnish of fresh pico de gallo with plenty of cilantro, a side of corn chips, and a tequila shooter in a hollowed-out lime that's been rimmed with salt.

[wik] I won! Oh yes, I won. And this may have been the best pot of chili I have ever made. With or without the corn smut (which did add some very welcome flavor nuances just as I'd hoped) this is a dynamite recipe.

Posted by Johno Johno on   |   § 5

I'll have a side of lobster

Virgin Galactic unveiled a mockup of the interior of their upcoming sub-orbital craft, the SpaceShipTwo being designed as we speak by visioary aerospace genius but terrible nomenclator Burt Rutan. This is sweet. Eight people on a ballistic shot, several minutes of weightlessness for $200k. Test flights are scheduled to begin in the spring of 2008, with commercial flights beginning in 2009. What's that, ten years for a small company to go from drawing board to successful prototype to commercial full rate production? NASA should be hiring these people. And, Brickmuppet should be buying me dinner soon.

Posted by Buckethead Buckethead on   |   § 2

Ministry of Minor Perfidy: The Movie

While enjoying a midnight snifter of umbilical blood and Asbach- a drink called the “Baby Hitler”, customary among Perfidians- I settled into my favorite wing-backed chair and, once satisfied my back was against the wall and there were still two exits from the room, I allowed myself to relax.

My mind was pleased with the state of things: perpetual war; incurable pestilence; rampant poverty; and irredeemable sloth and corruption are all fundamental aspects of modern Man. Across the Multiverse, even, Light has been retreating before Dark for millennia. Good is out across the infinite Cosmos; Evil is cool, and Chaos is the new/old/new black. It is in those circumstances that the Ministry thrives. And so I was, by conscious reckoning anyway, content.

But as the coal-fired hemoglobin started to pull me under, my unconscious offered a disturbing realization: soon, very soon, there will be no new frontiers to conquer, no more people or species to corrupt. Possibly even before the Third Millennium of the Son, all will be dark. Evil will reign, but over what?

Startled, I jerked from my semi-dream so suddenly that the vivid images and impending dread drained from my mind like water. It was only with a bit of reflection, and a couple more drinks, that I was able even to recall even as much as I have. One detail, though, was burned into my conscious and needed no further prompting to retain. A vision as clear as the sun I so loathe.

It was a marquee.

And the marquee proclaimed: “The Ministry of Minor Perfidy: The Movie”.

And it was clear then that film was the last frontier for evil to continue to spawn. Even after the final curtain for homo sapiens- as our civilization evaporates into supernova, or dread demon Thaoekilikhan devours us all feet first- there will be entertainment lawyers, studio executives, and armies of hacks still surviving, somewhere, like roaches. And like roaches, they will do what comes naturally to them: making entertainment so bad it perpetuates the cause of pure evil everywhere.

The Ministry needs to make a movie. The first biopic about a blog. There is no script yet, but that’s rarely stopped filmmakers before. I do have some ideas about casting though:

JohnO: Toss-up between Steve Buscemi or Charlie Sheen.

Buckethead: I’m leaning toward Lawrence Fishburne.

Patton: Maybe Billy Crudup; maybe Billy Bob Thornton. Definitely someone named “Billy”.

Ross: Jet Li.

Me: Could go Carlos Mencia; if unavailable, get Lee Van Cleef back from the dead.

Posted by GeekLethal GeekLethal on   |   § 13