Orwell's view of socialism is clear throughout the entire work. The fact that the government calls itself "Big Brother" shows that the nature of socialism is to present itself as helpful, to make one believe that it has the people's best interests at heart, which initially, the movement did. The fact that Big Brother is always watching evidences Orwell's fear of socialism, that given that much power, the government will abuse it. Once commerce is controlled, the next logical step, to Orwell, would be personal lives, so that the government would be able to maintain this power.

A main tool that Big Brother uses to maintain their power is ignorance. The only people who have a remote chance of becoming aware of the hypocrisy and corrupt nature of the government is the bureaucracy. The proletariat hardly matters, because they have no power. Those in the bureaucracy, however, do have a minimal sense of power because they have greater access to information. An example of the government abusing their power to keep both the bureaucracy and the proles ignorant would be one of the great lessons of the book: "He who controls the present, controls the past. He who controls the past, controls the future." Events were changed, documents destroyed, to prove that Big Brother was meeting it's goals, that they were benefiting the people. Because they had no proof to contradict what they were being told, the people were easily and readily lied to.

Much of the book was remniscient of Stalin's regime in that documents were falsified to convince the people that there was a surplus. People were going without boots, but according to the government there was an overabundance of things like this. The people could not be starving, they could not be without boots and clothing, because Big Brother said that they weren't. Big Brother said that they were taken care of.

Another way the government distracted the people and maintained power was through distraction. They were always at war. Always. And their enemy had always been their enemy, even if they weren't. The war actually switches between enemies, but every time that happens, the government denies any switch and said they had always been fighting that war. War brings a kind of unity to a country. The people feel patriotic and united in their fear and hatred of their enemy. This is exemplified with the Five Minutes Hate. One cannot help joining in the hatred, to giving into the animalistic tendencies to hate their oppresser or potential oppreser. Unfortunately, very few are intelligent enough to realize who they are really being oppressed by, and those who are, are terminated, or tortured into submission. They are broken beyond repair, to the point where there is no will to fight, no will to be free. They are also unified with the many group functions that are practically mandatory, and by the usage of the word "comrade" in reference to anyone. That's straight Russia, right there.

Big Brother also uses propaganda abundantly. In the Five Minute's Hate, in their portrayal of Capitalists, in their groups, slogans, posters, movies, books. It's everywhere. No one can escape it. This, again, unifies the people, gives them a common enemy, gives them a purpose: to hate.

Their are some who are intelligent enough to rebel, but as I've stated, they are beaten down, psychologically and physically. The proletariat are too unintelligent, or too unaware to resist, should they even want to. And why would they? No matter the governmental regime, they are still in the same place, making barely enough to exist. One can argue that under capitalism, that may change, but under capitalism, the gap between the proletariat and the bourgeosie theoretically grows. The Iron Hand is not fair to all, but picks favorites among the people who already have the resources to succeed. The proletariat lack these resources, and are thus happy in their ignorance. If they cared enough to change things, even for ideological reasons, it wouldn't get them anywhere worth going, and may even make things worse for them in the interim. They are not taken care of now, but that might be better than some new and unexpected evil if they were to change things.

1984 is not anti-government, it's anti-despotism. It's a political and social satire warning against the dangers of too much power invested in the government. I don't believe George Orwell vehemently supports capitalism, but I do think he prefers it to socialism, communism, and facism, where one group holds too much power. Capitalism allows a free-market, and, theoretically, because the government doesn't control that, they don't control the people's personal lives because people at least have freedom in commerce.

Loose Cannons and Other Weapons of Mass Political Destruction is listed as one of the 10 other books Tower recommends if you purchase "Medical Bloopers: 2009 Day to Day calendar."  Of course, with a title like that how could you go wrong.  Here are some of the other books listed:

- Rick and Bubba's Big Honkin' Book of Huntin': The Two Sexiest Fat Men Alive Talk Hunting by Rick Burgess

-Rub My Tummy and It's a Deal by Mark Anderson.

-Introduction to Satire by Leonard Feinberg

And last, but not least:

-What's Shakin': An Insider's Look At the Humorous Side of Parkinson's Disease by John Brissette.

**********

Loose Cannons and Other Weapons of Mass Political Destruction

Available online at Lulu.com, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Borders, and Books A Million. 

Karl went on, well have I got a story for you, it’ll seem like science fiction, but stay with me. So, on Wednesday, I got a call from somebody I never talked to before, caller told me to meet with him at the Potbelly’s sandwich on 1299 Pennsylvania around 11:30 or so. He suggested that I dress casually, at least that way people won’t instantly recognize me. He has some real interesting information on the election. He wanted to talk. I told him I felt better meeting at one of the clubs around DC, but this guy said that it’s better to do it in public, much harder to eavesdrop, and nobody would expect it. He could be recognized with a Redskin’s ball cap.

I figured I was gonna be in town anyway, so why not, and it’s a break from the normal grind. So I wandered into town, and made my way to the Potbelly’s. Before I actually walked in, I spotted this middle aged white guy in the Redskin’s cap who is munching on a sandwich, and head toward him. He sees me, and walks up to me, and hands me a bag and a cup, and says: “chicken salad sandwich and Diet Coke, let’s take a walk.”

I took the sandwich, and asked, ok, who are you, and what’s this about?

He says, great questions, well, let me tell you who I am. He pulls out his cell phone and hits a number. My phone rings, and I’m a bit annoyed. What’s this supposed to tell me I ask, what kind of game are you playing?

The white guy says, look at your phone, it’ll answer your question. To be honest, I was kind of pissed at this point, but I figure, I’ll play along. I lift up the phone, and I see the caller ID says BO. I looked at this guy, and I say, what the hell? Where did you get that phone from?

He replies, it’s my phone. I looked at the guy, and I was dumbstruck, I said, how is this possible? I know that is Barack Obama’s phone, how did you get it? Who are you?

The white guy smiled, I’m Barack, don’t say it too loud. People might think you’re crazy. But it is me, it’s amazing what modern technology can do, eh? Before you ask, this is a mask, something that the CIA developed. It’s perfect, my make up guy came from the agency. Nobody has the least bit of clue this is who I am.

I asked, but if you’re Barack, who the hell is it that’s running around and giving all those corny speeches?

Some loser actor from Hollywood, they’re a dime a million you know.

I responded, You’re not doing yourself any favors, have you seen the latest polls.

The white guy kept smiling, trust me Karl, the Hollywood actor I have on stage is managed by Michelle. He’s been there for about four months. And look what he’s accomplished, all he has been saying is bullshit about change and hope, and other crap. And the people are eating it up. I don’t need to be there. The polls don’t bother me, this way, I can have fun whenever I want and not get pressured into doing anything stupid. Oh, I’ll be there on the important occasions, like the convention, and the debates. No big deal. Besides, I have to make the race close, so McCain won’t feel so bad. We both know I am gonna win this.

But we’re not here to talk about me. The reason we’re here is because I want to show you the fruits of your advice, and of course to ask a favor. First, the fruits. Recognize this number? Remember your advice? Well, I used it. The white guy holds up the phone… and on it was the private cell number of Hillary. I know since I have a friend in the phone company.

He hit the send button, and this is what I heard.

Hillary? It’s Barack, What do you say? Last offer, you can be the Health Czar?

Come on Hillary, we both know you’re not going to be the VP. But you’ll get your spot.

It’s not a loser position, do you care about health care or not?

No, you wish Hillary, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m young and virile, besides, you can’t even keep Bill happy, you think he is hooking up with young girls all over because he is sexually satisfied?

Well, you don’t have to be in my administration at all, I don’t care. Once I’m president, I don’t care what you do. You can be the elderly bitch on the Senate floor who keeps whining like that Kennedy, but really, you won’t accomplish shit.

Ok, hold up, Hillary, I don’t have the time to waste. Just remember to keep your little supporters in line at the convention, or you won’t be getting any support to pay off the campaign debts, and be nice when you talk on Tuesday. Otherwise, kiss the millions you plowed into your disaster of a campaign goodbye.

With that, Barack hung up. He looked at me and smiled, I wanted you to at least hear that one, so that you know I do listen. Now, about this favor. I want to stick it to that bitch for all the grief she caused. I know you show up on Fox News all the time, do me a favor, and keep up the suggestion that Hillary can be my VP. That’ll really rile up the bitch. Heh, heh, and thanks again for the help. We’ll talk again soon. Probably after the convention, we’ll have to plot a strategy about how to beat McCain but let him retain his dignity.

With that, he waved, and a red Ferrari came down the road, and he hopped in, and just like that, he was gone.

So that’s my story. Karl ended.

I was flabbergasted. I asked Karl if he was pulling my leg. Karl said no, not at all. He just thought it was very interesting what Obama did. He never in his wildest dream thought Obama would ever be so interesting or entertaining. I asked if he was going to honor Obama’s request. Karl’s answer? Just watch the Fox News talk shows this week if you have time. I tell ya, George, politics can be really fun.

Bismarck, N.D., August 21, 2028 — A year after undergoing a life-saving head transplant, Kenyan/British sprinter Getthi Annou-Capp beat out favorite Esop Hayre of Canada yesterday to win the Olympic gold medal in the men’s 200m final.

Annou-Capp finished with a time of 16.09 seconds—just shy of the world record set by Rod Ripper of Canada in 2020. The sprinter, whose head is 22 years old and body 24 years old, was smiling as he eased into the final 100m, well ahead of Hayre.

Annou-Capp says his medal proves that anyone can do what he wants, even if he's a hybrid.

Nigel Capp was a mild-mannered computer programmer in London a year ago when his head was crushed in an automobile accident.  He was rushed to a Princess Grace Hospital, where surgeons were trying to reattach the head of Kenyan runner Getthi Annou, who was in town for the World Championships and had just been decapitated in a separate car accident.

After determining that Capp was in an irreversible coma, and that Annou’s head could not be successfully reattached, doctors decided to perform what at that time was only the second human head transplant in history. (The first was conducted in the Netherlands in 2023, when the head of Rotterdam mechanic Leopold Von Stralen was attached to the body of a teen-age girl.)

Surgeons quickly removed Capp’s head and, in an 18-hour procedure, attached it to Annou’s body. 

“This is a dream come true,” said Annou-Capp, fighting back tears after winning the race. “Yesterday, I was just an odd-looking hybrid, and today I'm an Olympic champion.”

Asked about the secret to his success, Annou-Capp said he has learned how to optimally blend his head with his body.

"I was able to think up an algorithm that determined how I should pace myself," he said. "I just communicated that to my body, and that's all she wrote."

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[Via]

I go in for a consultation with the oral surgeon and when he sees the x-rays immediately recongnizes it is not a root, but an entire tooth fragment. "No big deal," he says, "we'll just go in there and get it out." So I schedule the appointment.

I went in today expecting the ordeal to last less than ten minutes, because it took them a total of 20 minutes to remove all wisdom teeth and stitch me up. This is also the reason I refused general anesthesia. Going under for a 5 minute procedure? Not this girl.

I wasn't really worried until the Doctor started to sweat. And I don't just mean that he looked misty, I'm talking he started to drip. I was afraid some was going to get on me and I was going to flip the hell out on him. Thankfully, he kept it to his scrubs and the insides of his eye glasses. There were times when he literally was pushing his weight onto this freaking piece of tooth that had started to become hidden because bone was starting to grow over it. Nice one, Doctor. 

After literally 30 straight minutes of pushing and pulling and drilling and twisting, the damn thing came loose. I've never been so happy to see a stitching needle. 

All that to say they told me that even though it was a fragment, they had basically done a full extraction, and to treat it as such. Hence I am now loaded up with giant tylenol and mashed potatoes, just like after my first pull. Needless to say, Nicole will have to drive me to Glendora at 5 am tomorrow for my internship orientation. Yay.

Modern dentistry is a crock.

The Cirelleans -- mentioned previously in a Canadian Fermentation post detailing some of Canada's fringe political parties -- are ready to govern. Outside of the inner-party circle, little is known about the Cirelleans, but during a recent media event and get-to-know-us session, they confidently laid out their political goals and explained why Canadians should vote for them during the next election.

(The Cirelleans introduced their new campaign poster at the media event. Cirellean leaders describe it as, "Motivating.")

The Cirelleans distributed a list of their parties initiatives to attending media. Canadian Fermentation was able to acquire a copy, as seen below:

• The Cirellean Party only runs candidates who are exemplars of Highly-Evolved Canadians. The other political parties are filled with Morons and they must be stopped. We know you believe us.
• The Cirellean Party will create a utopia in Canada, which will then spread throughout the rest of the world and on into the galaxy. This will be accomplished by the execution of all Morons, leaving only Highly-Evolved citizens to run the show.
• The Cirellean Party will adjust the federal budget so that it reflects the initiatives of the people. To this end the budget will be set at 90% towards space exploration, 5% towards the subsidization of beer and other spirits, 4% towards supporting the highly-evolved leaders in a lifestyle to which they are accustomed, and 1% towards hacksaws to be used during the Moron Cleansing.
• The Cirellean Party will build 54 large space transport systems, by which Highly-Evolved Canadian citizens will be forced allowed to travel to the Ultimar 4 star system, where, it is believed, the progenitors of the Highly-Evolved citizens are located. It is the duty of the Cirellean Party to return these individuals back to the Fold of Enlightenment.
• The Cirellean Party believes that all beer and other spirits should be subsidized by the government making these substances easily accessible to all citizens for a low, low price.
• Everyones favourite colour will be puce.
• It is the responsibility of elected Cirellean officials to determine who is a Moron and who is Highly-Evolved by using various tests. Women will be tested first, in the Cirellean's private chambers, and men will be tested afterwards...in the Cirellean's private chambers.
• Everyone who votes for the Cirelleans will be given ten-million dollars.
• Anyone who votes for the Cirelleans is obviously a Highly-Evolved individual and should pass the testing with no problem.

After the Cirelleans announcement rumours started to surface that Harper was changing his mind about calling an election. I can't say I blame him. These guys sound good!

Well, at least better than any other party running...

VOTE CIRELLEAN...OR ELSE...

"When you threaten Poland, you perhaps forget that it is not 1988," Rice said to Polish reporters in Warsaw. "It's 2008 and the United States has a ... firm treaty guarantee to defend Poland's territory as if it was the territory of the United States. So it's probably not wise (for Russia) to throw these threats around."

Rice was asked by a reporter if she was totally insane or merely acting totally insane for trying to encircle Russians with U.S. weapons and then verbally threatening them.

"When you suggest that I'm totally insane, you perhaps forget that it is not 1988 and I'm not getting my first lobotomy at the hospital," she said. "It's 2008 and the rest of my brain has a firm grasp of how Armageddon should start. War with Russia would be pretty cool."

Rice also insisted that the U.S. is "within its rights" to purchase the governments of Russia's neighboring countries in order to place U.S. missiles and troops in them.

"Anyone who has played the strategy board game RISK knows that you always attack Russia last, because it's so big," she said. "That's not crazy. It's just good strategy."

Rice then went on to explain the merits of attacking Russia's Kamchatka region from Alaska.

(Photo obtained from Condoleezza Rice's private medical file)

Dejénme explicarles una cosita antes de comenzar con este post. Yo soy la persona menos "politically inclined" que existe en este sistema solar. A mi literalmente me importa 3, a veces hasta 5, carajos quien coño este postulado, corriendo, perdiendo, ganando, acusado de robarle la cartera a la mai del contricante mientras hechaba una cagada en la grama del capitolio. Sinceramente no tengo tiempo ni las ganas para involucrarme en tal melcocha de mierda que es la política puertorriqueña. Probablemente, si eres un morón, estarás defendiendo la política y dirás que en el resto del mundo la política es así. Estoy de acuerdo pero me importa un carajo porque no vivo en el resto del mundo. Eniguey, volviendo a lo que veníamos. En la noche de anoche, 20 de agosto de 2008, estaba transitando por la avenida que pasa justo por el frente del Partido Popular Democrático en el Viejo San Juan. Eran aproximadamente las 10pm y un poco antes de donde está el partido me encuentro con un pequeño tapón, cosa inusual para la hora y el día. Cuando me voy acercando me percato de que hay 40 cabrones con banderas enormes del PPD y una vellonera de esas gigantes . Estaban tapando la vía de tránsito como si las gordas cabronas esas tuvieran una fucking tablilla en el joyete. Había un caballero en particular que estaba parado en el mismisimo centro del carril sin moverse. Como yo estaba en un carro, en una avenida aporbada para el tránsito de vehiculos, mi compañero procedió a hacerle un gesto "polite" de que se moviera a un lado para nosotros poder pasar. Fuimos muy buena gente ya que no le tocamos bocina, a pesar de que tenía el derecho de hacerlo. Tan pronto hicimos eso, se desató la furia de los cromañones esos que estaban allí. Primero, los cabrones me empezaron a dar en el techo de carro y a gritar barbaridades. Si alguien pisa al cabron ese hay que pagarlo nuevo verdad. Clase de cojones!. Se las deje pasar. Unos 15 segundos más tarde escucho un PLOP durísimo en la parte de atrás del carro. Cuando miro por el retro visor me había tirado un huevo de gallina al cristal. Ahí fue que me encabrone y decidi estacionarme en el centro del gallinero y hablar con un oficial de la ley. El oficial, con una cara de pendejo más grande que la de Aníbal después de las 14 cirujías, me pregunta que fue lo que pasó. Le explico la situación a lo que el me dice "tu lo viste? no verdad, asi que quieres que yo haga" No soy una persona violenta, pero en ese momento me dieron ganas de quitarle el arma de reglamento y vaciarsela directamente por el recto. Luego de que el oficial inútil (creo que ese era su apellido) hiciera lo suyo, se acercaron unos manifestantes a preguntar que habia pasado. Nuevamente les cuento la historia y uno se disculpa pero viene otro caballero, un enano cabron, y le toma una foto a su obra de arte y procede a decirme "que me pierda". Por poco pierde los dientes y yo iba a perder mucho más, pero la satisfacción de haberle propinado una paliza valía la pena. Ahora bien, no entiendo porque fui victima de las cobardadas de un partido. Digo cobardada porque estaban tirando huevos de "gallina" ;) La verdad es que como les dije, no me importa de 2 a 3 puñetas la política, pero ahora, bah que se joda, ojalá gane Ruben Berríos de gobernador a ver a quién carajos le van a tirar huevos SO CABRONES!!!!!

Sometimes it amazes me how people can manipulate a mere word and turn it into hateful language that if uttered, could destroy a person's soul. I'm pretty sure that the origin of the word "retard" was never intended to be used as a derogatory term in order to describe mentally disabled individuals. It was also not expected to become a slang term for something that is ridiculous, stupid, or unnecessary, but unfortunately, it has. I sometimes enjoy throwing out "retarded" here and there, but I never use this to be hateful or perpetuate discrimination toward disabled individuals.

It's more like...Wow, Shirley Phelps  sure is retarded.

(I regularly use hate speech to suppress my undying lust for Ellen DeGeneres!)

Therefore, I propose we don't completely abolish the words - retard or retarded from our language, but instead, we work to distance its meaning away from the mentally disabled. Everything can be redefined...just look at Madonna.  Personally, I do not refer to mentally disabled individuals as "retarded." I just don't agree that this is the true meaning of the word. Instead, I think we should all try to only use the words retarded or retard to describe things that are truly idiotic like, the Bush administration and insanely high gas prices. And let's get off Ben Stiller's back and allow our comedians to create...

Comedy is often funny because it doesn't abide by the rules of political correctness or social acceptance. Unlike in real life, in comedy any subject or language is open game. Not everyone may like that, but that's life. There is a freedom to comedy and humor and that is why I believe most people need it. Comedy is often offensive, shocking, and its language can sometimes bring your grandmother to tears. Because of those reasons, I don't want my comedy censored. As Americans, we are free to choose what we watch...for the most part. Some of us are still pissed off at the cable companies and their ridiculous prices and live a life without cable (Yes, I said WITHOUT...not even basic cable) and are forced to watch only the "regular" network channels, which gives us VERY FEW options (thank God for the Internet or my life would be much less meaningful).

Since we have a choice in what we entertain ourselves with, if something offends us, we can turn it off. I practice my right to choose what I entertain myself with everyday. And it's great. So if Ben Stiller makes a movie that uses the word retard or retarded and that is very offensive to you, you don't have to see it. That's the beauty of the system.

I understand the power and often harmful effects of some words when spoken by hate mongers, homophobes, racists, sexists, sizists, etc. And there are words that I choose not to use in my vocabulary; however, sometimes I think this country enjoys creating its own drama.  Which (like I've said in previous blogs) only distracts us from any REAL issues. Why are we again protesting the entertainment industry (and thus making them more $) when we live in a world where political leaders and the self-proclaimed religious are often the most intolerant, hateful, and immoral people? We have to quit expecting that the ENTERTAINMENT industry be our moral compass...no matter how much we love them...that goes for Mr. Clooney too!

In my little pale gurl opinion, it's time we stop giving words, people, and non-issues so much power and attention.  I propose we spend less time worrying about what Ben Stiller says, writes, or acts about and spend more time laughing and studying geography (Maybe then the 'Americans are dumb' opinions will disappear).

PS...Ben Stiller called and he wanted me to thank all of the protesters for the FREE publicity. He is now on his way to "reflect" about the current state of the word "retard" on his yacht in Saint-Tropez (Google map it AMERICA).

diejenigen von uns, die ihr dreiundzwanzigstes lebensjahr erlebten, schworen danach jeden montag, dass sie nie mehr ein glas alkohol anrühren würden.

ach, es waren eben die goldenen jugendjahre. in nachbars blumentopf kotzen. morgens irgendwo aufwachen und feststellen, dass man nachts den weg zum klo nicht mehr gefunden hatte. immer ganz gespannt darauf warten, bis einem die freunde am nächsten morgen erzählen, wie genau man sich dieses mal absolut unmöglich gemacht hatte. oder die netten kellner, die einem auf ein lokalverbot hinwiesen, an das man sich nicht mehr erinnern konnte...

erst mit fünfundzwanzig hatten wir die lösung:

endlich kamen die ganzen xtc und speedpillen auf den markt. und da hatte man auch nicht gar so einen grossen kater, wenn man vor dem schlafengehen genug schlaftabletten und ein wenig heroin nahm.

hach, wie schön es ist, der jugend zuzuschauen, wie sie sich lebenerfahrung erarbeitet...

da wollen wir alle hin:

Today I had the opportunity to observe the howler humans very closely. They are called howler humans because they are as loud and vocal as the howler monkeys. You mainly see them climbing around buildings and fixing up houses. They tend to be very primitive and scream at innocent humans of the opposite sex. Acting like this is not something that is very popular with regular humans, but they are a needed species and definite proof that we are related to the chimpanzee as the howler humans, as stated earlier, act very primitive.

Actually I'm just joking. Kind of. As far as I know, there is nothing called a howler human; but the behaviour is true when it comes to stereotypes.

What inspired me to write this is based on what I saw this morning on my way to work.

There were this young woman walking a few meters ahead of me. Further ahead were two or three guys getting ready to do some work on the outside of a house. As she was passing by these respectless tossers were shouting what seemed to be very rude and respctless remarks. All I could do when passing by were to shake my head. As the saying goes:
"If you try to talk sense to a fool, he will only call you foolish."

As I was heading home from work today I passed by these philistines, one of the wankers managed to drop something down on some people having lunch when trying to mount some equipment. Luckily it didn't hit anyone as that would be very dangerous and maybe even fatal. And as the guy almost getting it in the head called him crazy, the rtard had the nerve to answer back. This is also a very good example of how careless the Dutch are when it comes to safety.

No wonder there's so much crime, violence, murders and wars around the world when we humans have such a hard time respecting each other.

Sometimes I wish I lived on a deserted island alone with Lizzie (with internet of course), so we could live in peace with each other.

Take care.

I'll save Pacionese for the 26th.  Besides, I have to be clear-headed for a meeting this afternoon, and writing like Pacione always gives me a headache.

Crime Investigation at the Haunted House

By Micky Fudgeone

Nickolas Rage, investigative reporter, awoke at 8pm to the sound of sirens outside his grandmother's house.  They were really loud.  Wrapping his feeble mind around the events, from the fog of his slumber, he decided to investigate, and for that he would need his notebook, a tape recorder, and his video camera, so that he could take notes, conduct interviews, and film some footage for his investigation.  After all, he was an investigative reporter.  By golly, he'd show up his archrival Jeraldo Riviera.

Rage grabbed his gear and mounted his tricycle to pedal down the street.  The house where all the activity was taking place was allegedly haunted.  Legend had it that there were ghosts, specters, and other scary ghouls.  He'd been by the place many times, but had always been too scared to enter the decrepit structure.  Two other reporters, from the Coal City Current, and the Morris Harold were already there.  "Damn, how'd they get here so fast?" thought Rage.

Not one to waste time, Rage stormed up to one of the police officers, demanding to know what had happened.  "Not now, Nickolas," said Detective Harddon.  "We're in the middle of doing our own investigation.  Why don't you stand across the street with the other onlookers?"

"Fuck you, dick, and the horse you rode in on."  Harddon looked at Rage's preferred mode of transportation, and laughed.  The tricycle had pink plastic streamers hanging from each end of the handlebars, and a seat the probably gave Rage an atomic wedgie whenever he sat on it.

Rage walked his tricycle across the street to stand with Billy Pourass from the Current, who was his enemy, ever since he did that interview with Rage a few years ago that mocked him, and even worse, edited out all his cuss words.  Rage hated it when his interviews were actually edited; his engaging personality never shone through when that happened.

Pourass was listening to his police scanner.  Rage had always wanted a scanner, but couldn't afford one.  "So, Billy, can you tell what's going on here?  The cops are too busy to talk to me."

"From what I can tell, Nickolas, a couple of squatters in the house were attacked by something, but the police don't yet know what it was.

Just then, two ambulances arrived, and EMTs raced into the house with gurneys to administer first aid to the victims.  They emerged about 10 minutes later with one victim on the stretcher, and loaded him into the ambulance.

It was winter, and had gotten dark hours earlier; it was hard to tell, but the victim appeared to be in his twenties, with a horribly swollen face and arms.  The other victim, a woman, also apparently in her twenties wasn't in nearly as bad shape, and made do with pressing handfuls on snow on her stinging, painful welts, to make the swelling subside.  She would be fine, but the man needed treatment in an ER, and was whisked away into the night.

One of the police officers sat with the woman on the front steps of the house, and asked her to tell him what happened.  All Pourass and Rage could hear was sobbing.

Over the scanner came a crackling voice:  "We're going to take her in for a statement; right now, she's a little too hysterical, and understandably doesn't want to go back in the house.  Can one of you go in and get her purse for her?  She said something about the kitchen counter."  In the background, they could hear a woman's voice wailing "Bees.  Africanized bees, and vampire spiders the size of large dogs that are a previously undiscovered species."

Rage reached in his pocket to grab his notebook and pencil, only to discover that he forgot to bring a pencil.  He didn't even have a pen.  "Fuckity, fuck, fuck," raged Rage.  "Billy, you got a pen or pencil you can lend me?"

"I'm afraid not.  Why don't you turn on your tape recorder and use that?"  Pourass shook his head, thinking that Rage was a complete tyro.

"Good idea.  Thanks, man."  Rage turned on his tape recorder, but nothing happened.  The batteries were dead.  "Fuck, god damn it.  How in the hell am I supposed to get this story when none of my equipment works?"

"What about your video camera?  It does have audio, doesn't it?"

The reporter from the Harold was on his cell phone, and, overhearing this exchange between the two others, reached into his breast pocket to pull out a pen.  Anything that would make this moron shut up was worth it.  He handed it to Rage.   "I want it back."  It was a cheap plastic pen, swiped from a Hampton Inn.

It was awfully cold that evening, and the pen skipped horribly.  "Pen don't work, buddy.  What's the matter with you?"

"Christ on a cracker.  Here, I'll fix it."  He fished a lighter out of his pocket, flicked it, and warmed the nib of the pen with the flame.  "Try it now."

Rage scribbled furiously in his notebook, then pulled out his video camera to film some footage.  "Can one of you guys film me?  I lost my tripod in a McDonald's after Gothicfest last year, and I'm too cold to hold the camera steady."  Both of the other reporters shook their heads "no."

Pissed off that the others weren't helping him with his story, he faced the camera and filmed the emergency vehicles.  He could always dub in audio later, if it didn't come out well.

"There was an incident this evening at the haunted house down the street from me.  Two people got stung by Africanized bees and bitten by vampire spiders.  One of them was taken to the hospital."  His research done, he returned the pen and pedaled home to fire up his computer.  He was going to write an article for Associated Content, and upload his video to YouTube.

Naturally, the camera didn't work very well when it was dark, so most of his footage had a strange red glow to it from the emergency vehicle lights.  The audio was remarkably good, with Rage's gerbil voice almost intelligible.  Surely channel nine would use his footage, and he'd become famous.  Maybe, his hero-rival Riviera would interview him.

Back in his basement hovel, he sat in the dark, in front of his glowing monitor, working his Vienna sausage fingers into a frenzy of typing.  While he was gone, 32 messages had landed in his inbox from those fuckers at SA.  After replying to each a half dozen times in rapid succession, he began writing his article for AC.

If he could stretch it out to five or six pages, it'd get millions of views, and the money would roll in for all his hard effort.  It might even exceed the amount of one of his disability checks.  He'd show those fuckers from the two local papers.

Exhausted, he collapsed on the sofa to take a nap.

Campaign spokesman Jim Bonner said that Obama half-brother number 17 is called George Hussein Onyango Obama and presently resides in a small dung hut on the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya.

"Senator Obama wants to help his family, because he has a tremendous set of family values," Bonner said. "And he knows George is qualified to be a U.S. vice president."

When a reporter pointed out that George Obama, who is 26 years old, is neither old enough or a U.S. natural-born citizen as required by the United States Constitution, Bonner objected.

"I don't think it's appropriate to bring race into this matter," he said. "Besides, it's a global economy and we can't let terrorists hold us hostage to the Constitution."

George Obama will depart for the United States as soon as he can sell his dung hut in Kenya, but due to a housing slump there he may not arrive in the U.S. for several more weeks.

(Photo by Kulmalukko, Wikipedia)

About a year ago someone came up with a petition to install Jeremy Clarkson as Prime Minister. Rather amusingly, when questioned about this veteran motoring journalist Clarkson, the outspoken host of BBC's Top Gear who has garnered a cult following all his own, stated that he would make a "rubbish Prime Minister" and that "the government should build park benches and that is it. They should leave us alone." 

I filled out the petition aeons ago and forgot all about it, until I received an email from No. 10 yesterday stating:

 "You signed a petition asking the Prime Minister to "Make Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister's Office has responded to that petition and you can view it here:"

Here is the offical Downing street response to that petition:

[vodpod id=ExternalVideo.666456&w=425&h=350&fv=%26rel%3D0%26border%3D0%26]

Rather predictably, the Tory party used this as an excuse to demonstrate flawlessly that, unlike the current incumbent Government, they have absolutely no sense of hunor at all, stating:

"While the British public is having to tighten its belts, the government is spending taxpayers' money on a completely frivolous project."

"This shows how detached the Labour Party has become from the concerns of the British people."

To which a Downing Street spokesman replied that the film had been made by someone in a spare half hour and had cost nothing to make.

Seems to me that the Tories are the ones out of touch with the realities of modern life...making a youtube video that involves filming a Downing Street staircase and the door requires spending money? Jeez. Go back to sleep.

I'm telling the truth!

Well, I'll give you this, Cindy. The money certainly ended up all yours.

Now, see if you can guess which of the following is Cindy's poor half-sister (even though Cindy's an "only child").

No, this is "Holiday Cindy"

Sorry...it's "No make-up Cindy"

Who's this? Oh: "Incognito Cindy"

Nope. This is Cindy's Mom

"Inner Cindy"

"On the Meds Cindy"

"He's mine now Carol, Cindy"

YES! The real half-sister to Cindy!

From the Washington Post:

By Amy Argetsinger and Roxanne Roberts
Wednesday, August 20, 2008; C01

Cindy McCain's Distanced Relatives

When Cindy McCain talks about growing up, she usually refers to herself as an "only child" -- a phrase that ignores the existence of her half sisters.

"It's terribly painful," Kathleen Hensley Portalski said yesterday. "It is as if she is the 'real' daughter. I am also a real daughter."

Portalski and McCain are both children of the late Jim Hensley, the Arizona businessman who founded one of the largest beer distributorships in the nation. Kathleen, 65, is the product of Hensley's first marriage in the 1930s to Mary Jeanne Parks. Hensley divorced Parks for Marguerite "Smitty" Johnson, whom he met at a West Virginia hospital in World War II and married in 1945. Cindy was born nine years later.

The half sisters had little contact growing up and have not spoken since Hensley's funeral in 2000. In his will, he left just $10,000 to his older daughter; Cindy inherited her father's multimillion-dollar fortune.

Portalski told our colleague Kimberly Kindy that she stood quietly by for decades while her father lavished attention on his second family. But the past few months -- with Cindy McCain's glowing childhood memories and repeated references to being her father's only child -- finally became too much. "I was his family, too," she said from her home in Phoenix. "I saw him at Christmas and I spent my birthdays with him."

But there's more: Cindy McCain has another half sister. Before her marriage to Hensley, Johnson had a daughter, Dixie Burd, by a previous relationship. Burd, who is much older than Cindy, could not be reached for comment.

The McCain campaign has been tight-lipped about the expanded family tree: "Mrs. McCain was raised as the only child of Jim and Marguerite Hensley, and there was no familiar relationship with any other sibling," it said in a statement.

The messy saga went public after McCain talked about her childhood in an NPR interview. Portalski's son, Nicholas, contacted the network to clarify the family history and his mother's feelings about being overlooked. "I'm upset," she told NPR. "I'm angry. It makes me feel like a nonperson, kind of."

Money, of course, has exacerbated the family tensions. The multimillionaire Hensley only occasionally saw his older daughter -- and was emotionally distant when he did, according to her son -- but gave Portalski and her children money and college tuition. But when he died eight years ago, Hensley bequeathed Cindy the majority share of his company. (Andrew McCain, John's son from his first marriage, is now the chief financial officer.) Portalski got no share of the business, and support to her family was abruptly cut off.

"It doesn't make any kind of sense at all,'' Portalski said yesterday. "He was generous over the years when I was growing up, so it doesn't compute that he would do that; that he would leave all of us out. He paid for college for two of my kids. He gave us yearly gifts that were generous, allowed for a down payment on a home. I felt shock and disbelief. I just wish I could ask him, 'Why?' "

Her son, Nicholas, asked for a copy of the will and said it had been amended so many times that it was hard to tell what the original intent or language must have been.

Now, she said, all she wants is for the McCains to apologize and acknowledge her branch of the family tree. (Since you asked: Yes, they're Democrats.) "He was my father, too. I don't know why even now he cannot be a part of my life."

MY NOTE: Kathleen, if you're waiting for an apology and acknowledgment from Cindy McCain.... don't hold your breath. If it doesn't serve her ambitions, you ain't gonna be part of it.

utrota maskrosorna

de uppstudsiga

(från BUY A POEM)

© Harning

***

inrikes flygning

jag vill inte leka med

salpeter fingrar

(från BUY A POEM)

© Harning

( Och om enbart DNA registrering inte fungerar kan vi ju alltid ta till FRA..)

]]> http://altugi.wordpress.com/?p=224 Wed, 20 Aug 2008 15:32:28 +0000 altug isigan http://altugi.wordpress.com/?p=224 If Super Break-In isn't really your type of game, then why not trying out Need for Weed: Pot Pursuit?? Actually I liked this one especially for its funny name, but the game itself turned out to be quite serious as I continued to elaborate on its features and gameplay. At the end only the name was what remained to be satirical. Uhm, and the secret levels ;)

Need for Weed: Pot Pursuit

Backstory

The streets aren't safe anymore! Rumours say that the Puff Puff Gang with its lethal delivery team is in town to distribute not less than one ton of weed to our innocent teens. The police is alert. They must prevent the distribution of at least half of the stuff or the gang will make enough profit to stay in town.

You are given the task to investigate the activities of the gang and track down its dealers before they can deliver. But beware, the Puff Puff Gang has many friends and it won't be easy for you to stop them.

Can you prevent the Puff Puff Gang from making a profit and force them to leave town?

Featured Gameplay

• Gather knowledge about deliveries.

Search the city for pedestrian small-time crooks or members of rival gangs who will tell you the rumours they've heard about the Puff Puff deliveries. Chase them with your car into dead-ends where they have no chance to escape so that they share with you what they know. Be sure to confirm the information you gathered through other sources, because some of these guys might lie to you just to make sure that you let them go. Also the gang loves to spread false information about their deliveries. The game will trigger a cutscene if you chased a faked delivery that shows the Puff Puff gang members making jokes about you while they count the money that they earned from the actual delivery.

Drive through the city and discover stores, garages and other places populated by gang members. Follow gang members secretly to find out the places where they hide. Trigger cutscenes in which you enter those buildings and witness gang members talking about deliveries.

Establish a network of spies that you regularly have to pay a few bucks to receive calls from them about deliveries.

Unlock new neighborhoods and secret buildings as you combine your knowledge.

Follow up the map to see where and when deliveries will happen.

• Survive attacks and keep your car in shape

Gang members will shoot at you from their cars wherever they spot you and chase you until you manage to escape. You must go to the garage to repair or upgrade the damaged protection shield of the car after attacks or your car will become more and more vulnerable until you might die in one of those attacks.

In later parts of the game, in order to get rid of you,  the gang will hire Dark Steel, a famous assassin in the appearance of a huge lethal black truck (inspired by the one in Steven Spielberg's movie The Duell). Dark Steel will smash your car like a tin can if you can't escape it, but thanks god it isn't very good when it has to climb steep hillroads.

• Engage in Deadly Sprints with Gang Members and Prevent Deliveries

Chase dealers in deadly sprints through the city and prevent them from delivering. Find out how many kilos of the stuff are in the back of the car.

• Become Famous and Unlock Rewards

Get featured on Journals and Newspapers as you catch gang members.

Unlock new features such as neighborhoods, tracks, vehicles, engine parts and accessories as you grow your reputation.

Strenghten your ride. You're going to need it!

• Secret Game Modes(for the sake of controversy)

Push the tab button, enter one of the codewords below and hit enter:

Smashing Pumpkins. Enables you to play as Dark Steel which in return enables you to smash cars, pedestrians or both.

Halluci-nation. If you enter the codeword after you caught a delivery car, a pop-up window asks you if you tried out the stuff you've found in the back of the car and when you answer "Yeah" the graphics change and for 15 seconds or so you ride a flying carpet or a Reindeer-phaeton and steer it through the… um, wow, this looks so amazing.

There must be a reason you arrived at this blog. An accident? You did it on purpose? Either way, I'm glad. Come often. I try to post one or two every day. Comments are invited. Indeed, comments are wanted!

Before anything else, it was a writing exercise for me, because I am not an native speaker of english, but I'll be glad if still someone finds it funny. ;) Here you go:

Super Break-In

The not-so-casual game for the casual game design wannabee.

Who says that games cannot create emotions? Now the game industry presents to you a game that speaks right from the bottom of your heart. But wait, don't break out into tears, break in the game industry! Here comes Super Break-In, the break-into-the-game-industry game.

Finally you get that big chance, but use it wisely! The walls between you and your desired job are thick and bear many unpleasant surprises! Are you skilled enough to put your dream company under siege with your irresistible ideas? Do you have what it takes to tear down the walls that stand between you and the likes of Sid Meier, Will Wright and Peter Molyneux? Find out NOW! With Super Break-In, the break-into-the-game-industry game!

Unique Features

·         Familiar gameplay in a fresh, never-used-before epic story setting

·         Tons of unique power-ups for entertaining and long-lasting gameplay:

o        Networks

o        Schmooze

o        Free GDC cards

o        And many more! 

·         Three difficulty levels

o        Intern (Hard)

o        QA Guy (Very Hard)

o        Elevator Pitcher (Insane)

Super Break-In in the Press

"Believe the hype!" -

- Ed Bartlett

"This guy [the designer] should have gotten on the elevator with me!"-

- Bing Gordon

"A game worth a thousand FAQs." -

- Dan Merchant

"Nice." -

- Tom Sloper