The beaver is a proud and noble animal

German sausage lovers can now study for a master’s degree in their favourite dish. Students learn how to appreciate the white sausage at the Sausage Academy in Neumarkt, set up by Norbert Wittman. There are also diploma courses covering which lagers, mustards and types of music go best with different varieties of sausage. So far 1,300 students have gained the diploma.

Current Mood: Amused

Accordionated – being able to drive and refold a road map at the same time

Blogish – a variety of English that uses a large number of initialisms, frequently used on blogs

Dunandunate – the overuse of a word or phrase that has recently been added to your own vocabulary

Earworm – a catchy tune that frequently gets stuck in your head

Freegan – someone who rejects consumerism, usually by eating discarded food

Fumb – your large toe

Furgle – to feel in a pocket or bag for a small object such as a coin or key

Griefer – someone who spends their online time harassing others

Headset jockey – a telephone call centre worker

Museum head – feeling mentally exhausted and no longer able to take in information; Usually following a trip to a museum

Nonversation – a worthless conversation, wherein nothing is explained or otherwise Elaborated upon

Optotoxical – a look that could kill, normally from a parent or spouse

Peppier – a waiter whose sole job is to offer diners ground pepper, usually from a large pepper mill

Percuperate – to prepare for the possibility of being ill

Polkadodge – the dance that occurs when two people attempt to pass each other but move in the same direction

Pregreening – to creep forwards while waiting for a red light to change

Smushables – items that must be pack at the top of a bag to avoid being squashed

Stealth-geek – someone who hides their nerdy interests while maintaining a normal outward appearance

Vidiot – someone who is inept at the act of programming video recording equipment

Whinese – a term for the language spoken by children on lengthy trips

Wibble – the trembling of the lower lip just shy of actually crying

Wikism – a piece of information that claims to be true but is wildly inaccurate

Source: The Telegraph

Current Mood: Amused

Food expert holds doctorate in noodle lore

OSAKA–A food expert, who has re-created dishes enjoyed by the nobility in the Nara period (710-784), was so taken with the 1,300-year history of noodles in this country that he wrote a book about it. “I simply wondered why ramen and soba noodles always rank high in Japanese favorite food surveys,” Ayao Okumura, 72, said.

His book, “Nihon men-shoku-bunka no 1,300-nen” (1,300 years of noodle culture in Japan), won the Tsuji Shizuo Shokubunka-sho food culture prize in spring. The book was the culmination of two years of fieldwork. Although he is a well-known expert in traditional foods, Okumura believes a person can always learn something, no matter how old he or she is. So he entered Mimasaka University’s graduate school in Okayama Prefecture shortly before turning 70 and chose noodles for his doctoral thesis.

He sampled noodles not only in Japan but also overseas, such as in Italy and China, and learned various ways to cook them. He sometimes ate noodles six times a day, raising his blood sugar level so high that he wound up in a hospital. In his sickbed, Okumura read 45 books from the Kamakura period (1192-1333) and later compiled a paper based on the books.

He began his culinary career at a relative’s delicatessen and studied under food culture giant Osamu Shinoda (1899-1978), who always said, “Visit the places where dishes originate.” Okumura devoted himself to studying noodles at his own research kitchen in Nara. “The reason Japanese love noodles is because of the way we cook and eat them,” Okumura said. “Now I’d like to study the aesthetics of color and the presentation of food.”

Source: Daily Yomiuri

Current Mood: Amused

1/3? really? I was expecting more…

Pornography makes up 37 per cent of the total number of Web pages online, according to a new study published by Optenet. According to the report, which looked at a representative sample of around four million extracted URLs, adult content on the Internet increased by 17 per cent in the first quarter of 2010, as compared to the same period in 2009.

Current Mood: Busy

Emphasis mine. This is why I have a soft spot for Ozzie.

The wisdom of Oz

From The Sunday Times – June 6, 2010

Let me ask you a question, Mr Osbourne,” a doctor in America once said to me, after I’d listed all the heavy-duty substances I’d been abusing since the 1960s.

“All right,” I said. “Go ahead.”

The doctor put down his notebook, loosened his tie a bit, and let out this long, weary sigh.

“Why are you still alive?”

I’ve often wondered the same thing myself. By all accounts I’m a medical miracle. When I die, I should donate my body to the Natural History Museum. It’s all very well going on a bender for a couple of days — but mine went on for 40 years. At one point I was knocking back four bottles of cognac a day, blacking out, coming to again, and carrying on. While filming The Osbournes I was also shoving 42 types of prescription medication down my neck, morning, noon and night — and that was before all the dope I was smoking in my “safe” room, away from the cameras. Meanwhile, I used to get through cigars like they were cigarettes. I’d even smoke them in bed.

“Do you mind?” I’d ask Sharon, as I lit up another Cuban the size of Red October.

“Oh no, please, go ahead,” she’d say, before whacking me with Good Housekeeping.

Then there are all the other things I’ve managed to not die from during my rock’n’roll career: like being hit by a plane (it crashed into my tour bus when I was fast asleep with Sharon in the back); or the time I got a false-positive HIV test; or the time when they told me I “probably” had Parkinson’s disease (they were wrong — it turned out to be a rare genetic condition, a Parkinsonian-like tremor). I was even committed to a mental asylum for a while. “Do you masturbate, Mr Osbourne?” was the first thing they asked me. “I’m here for my head, not my dick!” I replied.

And then there was the rabies treatment I had to go through after eating a bat — which you might have heard about once or twice. All I want to say is that I thought it was a rubber toy, swear on my 17 dogs’ lives.

Oh, and yeah, I’ve been dead twice: it happened (so I’m told) while I was in a chemically induced coma after I broke my neck in a quad-bike accident in 2003. I’ve got more metal screws in me now than in an Ikea flatpack thanks to the doctors and nurses at the NHS.

So, as you can imagine, when The Sunday Times Magazine asked me to be its new health-advice columnist — Dr Ozzy, as I’ll be known from now on — I thought they were taking the piss, to be honest with you. But then I thought about it for a while, and it makes perfect sense: I’ve seen literally thousands of doctors over my lifetime, and spent well over £1m on them, to the point where I sometimes think I know more about being a doctor than doctors do.

And it’s not just because of the lifestyle I’ve pursued. I also happen to be the world’s worst hypochondriac. I’ll catch a disease off the telly, me. Being ill is like a hobby. I’ve even started to diagnose my own diseases, thanks to Google (or I should say thanks to my assistant Tony, because I’m not exactly Steve Jobs when it comes to computers).

Understandably, the question I always get is: “If you’re such a hypochondriac, Ozzy, how could you have taken all those drugs?” But the thing is, when you have an addictive personality like mine, you never think anything bad’s gonna happen. It’s like: “Oh, well, I didn’t do as much as so-and-so — I didn’t drink as much as him, didn’t do as much coke.”

Now, that might be fine in theory, but in my case the so-and-so was usually a certified lunatic like John Bonham or Tommy Lee, which meant they’d put enough up their nose to march the Bolivian army to the moon and back. Another thing I’d always tell myself was: “Oh, a doctor gave me the drugs, and he must know what he’s doing — mustn’t he?” But that was ignoring the fact that I’d administered the stuff myself. And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a qualified medical professional.

Which explains all the near misses I’ve had: overdoses, seizures, you name it. Most of the time I blamed it on my dyslexia: “Oh, I thought it said 24 pills every two hours, not two pills every 24 hours.”

The funny thing is, to my friends I’ve been Dr Ozzy for years — mainly because I used to be like a walking pharmacy. I remember back in the 1980s, when a friend came to me with a leg ache. I went to get my “special” suitcase, pulled out a pill the size of a golf ball and said: “Here, take this.” It was ibuprofen, before you could buy it over the counter in the UK. He came back a few hours later and said: “Dr Ozzy, you cured me!” The only problem was, I gave him 800mg — enough to cure an obese elephant. It knocked the bloke out for a month. That was in the old days, of course, before lawsuits were invented. I’d never do that now. Honest to God.

But it’s not just medication I’ve given to my friends. As strange as it sounds, a lot of people have asked me for family advice, especially in recent years. I suppose it’s because they saw me raising Jack and Kelly during The Osbournes, and they think I’m like the Bill Cosby of the undead or something. They ask me stuff like “How do I bring up the subject of sex with my kids?” or “How do I talk to them about drugs?”

I’m happy to help the best I can. The trouble is, when I talked to my kids about drugs, it was: “Can you give me some?” But I’ve become a better father since then, I like to think. I mean, during the worst days of my addiction, I wasn’t really a father at all, I was just another one of Sharon’s kids. But I’m a different person now: I keep fit, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t get high — or least not on anything but endorphins.

I enjoy my family more than I ever have before: not just my five amazing kids (two of them with my first wife, Thelma) but also my four grandkids. Plus, after nearly 30 years, my marriage to Sharon is going stronger than ever, so I guess I must be doing something right.

When you live full-time in California, as I’ve done for the past few years, you often feel people spend so much time trying to save their lives that they don’t live them. I mean, at the end of the day, we’re all going to die. So what’s the point of always worrying about your health?

For me, the decision to change my life wasn’t really about my health. It was about the fact that I wasn’t having fun any more. As I used to say, I’d put the “wreck” into recreation. I was on clonazepam, zolpidem, temazepam, chloral hydrate, alcohol, Percocet, codeine — and that was just for starters. But morphine was my favourite. I didn’t do it for very long, mind you, because Sharon would find me passed out on the floor with the dog licking my forehead, and she put a stop to it. And thank God she did: I’d have kicked the bucket a long time ago otherwise.

Funnily enough, it was the smoking that put me over the edge. I’m a singer, that’s how I earn a living, but I would get a sore throat then cough through a pack of Marlboros to the point where I couldn’t do gigs. It was ridiculous; the stupidest thing you could ever imagine. So the cigarettes were the first thing I quit, and that started the ball rolling. Now I take drugs only for real things, such as high cholesterol, depression or heartburn.

I can understand — sort of — if people think it’s more rock’n’roll to die young. But what really winds me up is when you hear: “Oh, my great-aunt Nelly smoked 80 fags a day and drank 16 pints of Guinness before bed every night, and she lived until she was 103.” I mean, yeah, that happens. My own gran lived until she was 99. But the odds aren’t on your side. Especially when you get to the grand old age of 61, like me.

Another thing that puts a bee up my arse is people who never get checkups, and never go to the doctor, even when they’re half-dead. I had my prostate checked just the other week, for example — I’m on a three-year plan for prostate and colon tests — and couldn’t believe how many blokes said to me: “Your prostate? What’s that?” I was like: “Look, chicks get breast cancer, and blokes get cancer of the prostate.” One guy even asked: “Where is it?” I told him, “Up your arse,” and he went: “How do they check that, then?” I said: “How do you think? It starts with a rubber glove and ends with your voice rising 10 octaves.”

My prostate guy here in Los Angeles says that every man over 50 will develop some kind of prostate problem as they get older, but only half will get tested. And yet nowadays you can cure prostate cancer if you get to it early enough. It’s the same with colon cancer. Mind you, I’m the first to admit that the preparation for the colon-cancer test isn’t exactly glamorous. They give you this horrible liquid to drink and then you have to crap through the eye of a needle until your backside is so clean, if you open your mouth you can see daylight at the other end. But it’s only because I got tested for colon cancer that my wife did the same — and her test came back positive. Thanks to that, they caught the cancer in time and her life was saved. So my first advice as Dr Ozzy will be: don’t be ignorant.

I haven’t always been a hypochondriac. When I was growing up in Aston, Birmingham, for example, our family GP was a guy called Dr Rosenfield, and I’d do anything to get out of an appointment with him — mainly because his receptionist was a woman with a full-on beard. I ain’t kidding you: a big, black, bushy beard. It freaked me out. She was like Captain Pugwash in a frock. And Dr Rosenfield’s surgery was so drab, you felt worse coming out than when you went in. Rosenfield himself wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t exactly a comforting figure, either. I remember falling out of a tree one time when I was scrumping apples: I hit a branch on the way down, and my eye swelled up like a black balloon. When I got home my old man smacked me around the ear before sending me off to get my injury looked at — then Dr Rosenfield smacked me around the ear, too!

I rarely got any kind of proper medical care in those days, mind you. If one of the six Osbourne kids had an earache, they’d get a spoonful of hot chip fat down their earhole. And my gran would give us milk and mutton fat for croupy cough. As for my father, he had this tin in his shed. I don’t know what was in it, some kind of black greasy stuff, and if you got a boil on your neck he’d go: “I’ll get rid of that for yer, son.” And he’d slap it on there, and you’d be, like: “Not the black tin! Nooo!” But that’s all my folks could afford. Shelling out on zit cream from Boots wasn’t gonna happen when they could barely afford to get food on the table. My father was one of those people who’d never see a doctor. He’d never take a day off work at the GEC factory, either. He’d have to have been missing a limb to take a sickie; even then, he’d probably just hop into the factory like nothing had happened. I don’t think he got a single checkup right up until the end of his life — and by that time he was riddled with cancer. It was his prostate that gave up first. I don’t know why he’d avoided doctors, given that it was all free on the NHS, but it made me think the opposite way: if I go to the doctor now and there’s something wrong with me, they’ll catchit early and I’ll get to live another day. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I ain’t afraid of dying. Although it would be good to know where it’s gonna happen, so I can avoid going there?

Sometimes I think people in Britain don’t make enough use of the NHS because they’re too busy complaining about it. But Americans — who’ll queue up outside a sports arena for three days just to go to a free clinic — can’t believe the deal we get over here. I’ll never forget the first time I got an x-ray done in the US after my quad-bike crash. The doc came into the room, holding up my slide and whistling through his teeth. “How much did all that cost you, huh?” he asked, seeing all the rods and bolts holding my neck and back together. “A couple of mill?“ Actually, it was free,” I told him. “I had the accident in England.” I almost had to call for a nurse, he got such a shock.

I just had my eyes fixed, having suffered from cataracts for years. I’m a new man in so many ways. I might be 61, but I haven’t felt so young since the 1960s. Aside from my eyes, the other big change in my life is that I’ve pretty much become a vegetarian. Seriously. It’s my new phase: brown rice and vegetables. I don’t even drink milk, apart from a splash in my tea. It ain’t because of the animals. I mean, I used to work in a slaughterhouse. You won’t see me marching over the frozen tundra, hunting down people who club seals. I just can’t digest meat any more.

I also saw that Food, Inc film the other day, which gives you a new perspective — not just on meat-eating, but on the whole animal-product industry. I mean, think of the entire population of the US, which is, what, 309m? Say 80m of them eat an egg every day: that’s a lot of eggs to squeeze out of a lot of chickens. And the way they do it at these megafarms is enough to put you off breakfast for life.

Not that I’m into any of that organic bollocks. People think they’re buying another day on this Earth, so they get ripped off. If you want organic, grow your own, that’s what I say. I used to do that when I was married to my ex and we had a little cottage in Ranton, Staffordshire. A veggie patch also happens to be a great place to hide your stash. Having said that, I’d always get stoned and forget where I had buried it. One time, I spent a whole week down the garden, trying to find a lump of Afghan hash. The missus thought I must just be really worried about my carrots.

I suppose when people hear stories like that, they might think I’m too much of a bad example to give advice. I wouldn’t argue with them — and I’d hate for anyone to think: “Oh, if Ozzy survived all that outrageous behaviour, so can I.” But d’you know what? If people can learn from my stupid mistakes without having to repeat any of them; or if they can take some comfort from the crazy things my family has been through over the years; or if just hearing me talk about colonoscopies makes them less embarrassed about getting tested for colon cancer, that’s more than enough for me. Dr Ozzy’s job will be done.

One last thing: being a hypochondriac, I’ll never tell someone to just stop worrying and/or come back later if their symptoms get worse. In Dr Ozzy’s surgery, everything will get taken seriously. As I’ve always said to my own doctors, “One day you’re gonna be standing at my graveside while the priest is reading the eulogy, and you’re gonna look down and see the inscription on my headstone, and it’ll say, ‘See? I told you I was ill.’“

Current Mood: Amused

Original link here: http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=230451057921

Attention Teenage Drug Dealers/Low Life & Oxygen Thieves

If you think you’ve saved enough benefit from your 4 children before your 20, this could be the answer to your prayers.

A proper bastardised, chaved up Skippy mobile if ever there was. Enhance your street cred at the local drive thru burger joint or council estate shop front no end with this utterly tacky converted little Renault Clio. Not your Gran’s idea of a lift to town, granted, but a fantastic opportunity to increase 3 fold your class A drug selling ability. This is the car you need boys. The punters will flock to the window for your home grown skunk and other illegal substances. you just ain’t gonna look out of place in this little beauty! Now I’ve made sure the tax ran out last November, so there is a big pat on your scrawny little backs already.

Dig out yer favourite unwashed “Umbro” hoodie and come cast your shifty little eyes on this. Ideal for the “Street Pharmacist” and other suitably attired twats. Your gonna need a baseball cap with this beauty, ideally one that comes with no fitting instructions. Heaven forbid you should put it on the right way. What better way to compliment your stolen Nike Air Max trainers than to be seen dangling a foot outta this pocket rocket.

Worried about the Babylon spotting ya, no need. Car comes fully equipped with proper blacked out gangster glass on the side windows. Hell, you could even fill the back up with yer ugly chav kids and knowone’d see ‘em. doesn’t get much better boys. Ah, but it does. It does. To show your complete and utter lack of taste and knowledge of the motor car you’ll also find the ridiculous rock hard lowered suspension to your taste as well. Why not get a step closer to Gran’s inheritance by offering her a lift in ya new “wheels” then taking her down the post Office flat out over the speed humps round your estate and hopefully knocking the spine out of her? Might need 2 laps but god damn them single teenage mums smoking Marlboro Lights outside the chippy will be impressed fella’s. You know that they like a ride like this. Turn up the Alpine Head Unit, stick in your favourite and incomprehensible “Drum & Bass” Cd and the throbbing out the 6×9 parcel shelf will have them pregnant in no time.

To complete the proper drug dealer look, a tasteless stripe has been fitted from the front to the rear. Finished in “Air Max” white it really doesn’t complement the car in any shape or form. Rather like you and your Brethren spitting on the floor constantly. Completely needless but you think it makes a statement about you. You’ll also enjoy the totally pointless but ridiculously noisy after market air filter. About as helpful as a fart in an astronaut suit, but hell, you didn’t get where you are today by being helpful, did you?
I’m quite sad to see the thing go really. There is nothing more pleasurable to me at 41 than to drive round in this bit of shit and look a complete prick. I’d much rather hand the opportunity to you work shy crack head council tenants any day. This little set of wheels is gonna let the other hoodies know you’ve made it. cocaine and skunk selling is never gonna get any easier for the lucky buyer of this car. I might have a deal on a couple of gram’s of smack or coke, but ideally I’d need to get a serious drug habit before hand. Perhaps someone could help? You can pay in cash or wraps, I’m easy really. Bring along your mums credit card or one that your mate has cloned down the petrol station. If it is going to be hard cash, please ensure it is discretely hidden in a used Tesco carrier bag, and you have folded one £20 note around 4 others. Makes counting so much easier.

For any female buyer I’m offering a free Tatoo of something utterly meaninless to go in the middle of your lower back. If you haven’t already got your “Tramp Stamp” that is.

If your an under-age drink driver, or under-age driver for that matter, this little beauty really isn’t going to attract the attention of the local constabulary at all. you’ll drift pass any patrol car effortlessly. Make sure there is at least 6 of you in the car though, Splif in hand. If your driving, have another swig from your 2 litre plastic “LIDL” brand cider as you nonchalantly flip the bird to the passing police patrol. Head off for the nearest estate for some tyre screeching fun. They ain’t never gonna take you alive in this.

The car does like a good rev in the morning at any unsocial hour. Neighbours will love it and feel proud to live in the same road. don’t forget to rev the pants off of it at all junctions and roundabouts as well. This really will increase the length of your manhood no end. your virginity is gonna be a thing of the past when the babes see you in this “fanny magnet”. You can almost bet your last eighth of puff your gonna get laid. Hell, might even get a few STD’s as well. your gonna get a proper bird with this motor.

For the disqualified driver I’ll even offer to recover it from outside the local Magistrates or police station. What better way to impress the local Judicial system in one final act of defiance before collecting your ASBO?

Don’t let the frivolous matter of actually holding a current, valid drivers licence and insurance put you off this bargain. A visit to your local crack house should procure some documentation from as little as fifty quid.

Nuff said, innit.

Some of the questions posted on the auction:

Q: Aiight bredrin duz it cum wi da blingin turbo whistler fingy in da rudeboi xhaust?
A: na man, me got it confiskated by da 5-0 4 been diss

Q: I say old chap, your charabanc looks absolutely spiffing. Does one know if one would possibly become attractive to those young fillies out there if one was to purchase it? I also think this would make an excellent weekend replacement for the roller, it would be much less conspicuous when I go out hunting skeezers whilst puffing on a woolah.
A: u is pizzin in da wind bro. me fink u like men..come out bro u safe.

Q: wikked how spacious is the boot? would, for example, the low life shitbag who has started to undercut me on my turf fit in the boot? is it soundproof?
A: u is gettin boddy in boot bro but gonna need to dismember it ’cause me base box inda way..Me mate Alsta do it but he say it messy nd he wanna drink..

Q: I say chap, that is my daughters car It was stolen from outside Marks and Spencers a week past Thursday. Felicity and I would be very happy if you would return our property to us (undamaged and with a full tank of fuel). If you will not comply then I shall have to inform the authorities. Kind regards Sebastian Howard.
A: woooaay dude!! Possesion is 9 tenths da law. it is my possesion now. Me own em wheels. felicity can work somin out wid me do. Is she fit? anywayz in wernt M & S me found it round da back NEXT but ‘ad 2 cut da clamp of. She left some crap CD’s init. Init

Q: esy bra if i buys this ride will i get all the julies after me init?
A: de julies be trippin up ya manor wiv dis set o wheels bro. Use is gonna get some serios hunnies

Q: I say old chap, could I borrow your car for a few weeks. I have something going on with a Scottish chap called Brown and I think your motorcar will help enormously with my “street cred”. I will return it after May 6th. I’m sure I can sort out a fiscal package for your inconvenience at that time. Many thanks. Dave. PS Could you throw in a couple of “Julies” for the boys in the office.
A: My Dear Mr Cameron. Anything to assist getting that one eye’d Scotish monkey out of government gets my vote! By all means borrow it. Use it as your election logo. you’ll win all the hoodies over!!

Q: I say old chap, one is looking for a nice auto for ones Mother in Law. Do you think this might suit the old gal? would there be a danger of her getting beaten senseless if she were to, by pure accident, pull into McDonalds car park, dont you know? If so, this could be the car for me…
A: she not get beaten. she get boned. bring da girl over. me is likein a MILF. Booyakasha!!!

Current Mood: Amused

I was having a lunch discussion about something I’d overheard while watching QI. Steven Fry had commented that 1 in 9 black adults in the US is currently in jail. This was met with lots of comments that it could not be so. Well, it is. According to Wikipedia and as reported by the NY Times, the Washington Post and the Independent:

The United States has the highest documented incarceration rate in the world. The USA also has the highest total documented prison and jail population in the world. According to the U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS): “In 2008, over 7.3 million people were on probation, in jail or prison, or on parole at yearend — 3.2% of all U.S. adult residents or 1 in every 31 adults.”

Incarceration rates are even higher for some groups. One in 36 Hispanic adults is behind bars, based on Justice Department figures for 2006. One in 15 black adults is, too, as is one in nine black men between the ages of 20 and 34.

Still, shocking news from the Land of the Free… The US locks up more of its citizens than China, which has 4 times the overall population. Impressive.

Current Mood: Cynical

RITCHIE’S HOLMES SEQUEL UNDER THREAT FROM WRITER’S ESTATE

The executors of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s literary estate have threatened to withdraw Guy Ritchie’s rights to the SHERLOCK HOLMES story if the director hints at a homosexual relationship between the lead characters in his sequel.

Robert Downey, Jr., who plays the supersleuth in Ritchie’s new movie adaption, recently appeared on David Letterman’s U.S. talk show and hinted at a homoerotic subtext in the relationship between his character and Jude Law’s Dr. Watson. During the interview the actor also asked the audience to decide whether Holmes is “a very butch homosexual.”

But Downey, Jr.’s comments have infuriated Andrea Plunket, who controls the remaining U.S. copyrights to the Holmes story, and she’s threatened to withdraw permission for a follow-up if Ritchie suggests the detective is more than just friends with his sidekick. She says, “I hope this is just an example of Mr Downey’s black sense of humour. It would be drastic, but I would withdraw permission for more films to be made if they feel that is a theme they wish to bring out in the future. I am not hostile to homosexuals, but I am to anyone who is not true to the spirit of the books.”

Current Mood: Amused

Source: The Guardian

At the time of writing, it’s not clear whether the 2009 Christmas No 1 will be The Climb by Joe McElderry, or Killing in the Name by Rage Against the Machine. I’ve just done my bit to inch the latter closer to the top spot by downloading it – something I’d resisted doing until now because I initially thought there was something a bit embarrassing about the campaign. After all, as every other internet smartarse pointed out, both tracks are owned by Sony BMG – so no matter which one sells the most, Simon Cowell wins. In other words, even by raging against the machine, you’re somehow raging within it.

But profit isn’t the point – or at least it’s not the reason I downloaded it. For one thing, I happen to think Killing in the Name is an excellent song, so I’ve already got something out of it. Most importantly, it contains genuine emotion. Even if the climactic repeated howls of “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!” put you in mind of a teenager loudly refusing to tidy his bedroom – as opposed to a masked anarchist hurling petrol bombs at the riot squad – there is at least an authentic human sentiment being expressed. Zack de la Rocha is audibly pissed off.

Compare this to the pissweak vocal doodle that is Joe McElderry’s X Factor single. For a song whose lyrics ostensibly document an attempt to gather the spiritual strength to overcome adversity and thereby attain enlightenment, The Climb is about as inspiring as a Lion bar. It’s a listless announcement on a service station Tannoy; an advert for buttons; a fart in a clinic; a dot on a spreadsheet. Listening to it from beginning to end is like watching a bored cleaner methodically wiping a smudge from a Formica worksurface.

But then nobody’s buying The Climb in order to actually listen to it. They’re buying it out of sedated confusion, pushing a button they’ve been told will make them feel better. It’s the sound of the assisted suicide clinic, and it doesn’t deserve to be No 1 this Christmas.

This isn’t mere pop snobbery, by the way. I’d rather see Girls Aloud at No 1 than Editors. But The Climb is a lame cover version of a lame Miley Cyrus song. If X Factor can’t be arsed to do better than that, its grip on the yuletide charts deserves to be broken.

Anyway, while I’m happy for Rage Against the Machine to be enjoying the sales and publicity, I can’t help thinking we could’ve organised a slightly better protest ourselves. Chances are the X Factor will try to kick back extra hard next year – perhaps by actually releasing a song with a melody in it – so it’s best to start planning the resistance now.

The temptation might be to pour a lot of time and effort into creating a catchy anti-X Factor anthem, but the smartest counter-move would be to release something short, cheap and throwaway that isn’t even a proper song at all. I propose a track called Simon Cowell: Shit for Ears, which consists of a couple of eight-year-olds droning the phrase “Simon Cowell, shit for ears” four times in a row in the most deliberately tuneless manner possible. It should last only about 15 seconds or so. Quick enough to register; brief enough not to outstay its welcome.

Then we release it online at the lowest price possible. What’s the bare minimum you can charge and still be eligible for a chart position? It could be as little as 2p. Because the track is just recorded on to a cheap mic, and released without the assistance of any record label, 100% of the profits go to charity.

Dot-eyed CGI judge and omnipresent hair product spokeswoman Cheryl Cole recently complained that the campaign against McElderry’s single was “mean”, adding “If that song – or should I say campaign – by an American group is our Christmas No 1, I’ll be gutted for him and our charts.”

She’s missing the point. It’s not mean: it’s funny. If the Christmas No 1 turns out to be an angry, confrontational rock track that concludes with an explosion of f-words, it’ll be precisely the shot in the arm the charts have been sorely lacking the last few years: something that puts a genuine smile on the face of millions of people; sensitive people, thoughtful people; people alienated by the stifling cloud of grinning mechanical pap farted into their faces on a weekly basis by cocky, clattering, calculating talent shows such as X Factor. It would give these people hope. Maybe only in a very small and silly way, but still: a tiny spoonful of hope. And what could be more Christmassy than that?

Current Mood: Amused

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you’re wrong.

More often than not, when someone is telling me a story all I can think about is that I can’t wait for them to finish so that I can tell my own story that’s not only better, but also more directly involves me.

Have you ever been walking down the street and realized that you’re going in the complete opposite direction of where you are supposed to be going? But instead of just turning a 180 and walking back in the direction from which you came, you have to first do something like check your watch or phone or make a grand arm gesture and mutter to yourself to ensure that no one in the surrounding area thinks you’re crazy by randomly switching directions on the sidewalk.

I totally take back all those times I didn’t want to nap when I was younger.

The letters T and G are very close to each other on a keyboard. This recently became all too apparent to me and consequently I will never be ending a work email with the phrase “Regards” again.

I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

Sometimes, I’ll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the fuck was going on when I first saw it.

How many times is it appropriate to say “What?” before you just nod and smile because you still didn’t hear what they said?

Our generation doesn’t knock on doors. We will call or text to let you know we’re outside.

I hate when I think of something really great to say during a conversation but by the time I get a chance to speak, we’re on a different topic. Do I let it pass and keep the good thought to myself, or do I awkwardly bring up the old topic again?

I think part of a best friend’s job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

Nothing brings two people together like the mutual hatred of another person.

Upon stubbing my toe while at my parents house, I yelled out “Mother Fucker!” at that my dad responded “Present!”… as gross as that was, I had to high five him.

How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

I think my other three stove burners are becoming jealous of front-left.

Whenever someone says “I’m not book smart, but I’m street smart”, all I hear is “I’m not real smart, but I’m imaginary smart”.

Was learning cursive really necessary?

Every bar bathroom should have a cupholder.

I hate when I plan out a conversation with someone in my head and they don’t follow the script.

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you’ve made up your mind that you just aren’t doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Dammit!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What’d you do after I didn’t answer? Drop the phone and run away?

I like all of the music in my itunes, except when it’s on shuffle, then I like about one in every fifteen songs in my itunes.

If anyone found out the one password I use for everything I’d be fucked.

“I had to walk to school 40 miles in the snow… barefoot” was good in it’s day. But imagine the sheer terror on your kid’s face when you drop “When I was born there was no internet”.

There’s no worse feeling than that millisecond you’re sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

Why is it that during an ice-breaker, when the whole room has to go around and say their name and where they are from, I get so incredibly nervous? I know my name, I know where I’m from, this shouldn’t be a problem….

Eating dessert, skipping class, and having sex all have one thing in common. Once the idea crosses your mind it’s almost impossible not to do it, and if someone else says it out loud, it’s 100% going to happen.

Sometimes I’ll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t at least kind of tired.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

“Do not machine wash or tumble dry” means I will never wash this ever.

I find it hard to believe there are actually people who get in the shower first and THEN turn on the water.

I keep some people’s phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

It never ceases to amaze me that the little space between the driver’s seat and the center console in my car will fit any object that can possibly be dropped, but will not fit a hand.

I have yet to see a movie or TV show accurately depict anything near my experience in high school.

Whizzing backwards in my wheelie chair to get a book from the other side of my office makes me feel like a dynamic go-getter. Awkwardly waddling back to my desk again, not so much.

I can’t help but wonder how I would fare if I were born during a different time period.

‘m at that age where I don’t like to be called “dude” but being called “sir” makes me feel really old. So until further notice, please refer to me as “big guy.

I’m much more prepared to handle an insult than a compliment.

Man, that .01% of germs that can’t be killed by hand sanitizer must be some bad ass shit.

The worst feeling in the world is when you are in the middle of a good story and realize no one is listening to you.

As far as I’m concerned, the weekend really only has one day: Saturday. Friday doesn’t count because we still have to work and Sunday doesn’t count because its haunted by Monday

Kids today will never experience the joy and excitement of hearing the sound of dial up internet actually connecting.

It’s never a good sign when you’ve exhausted your daily website routine within the first hour of being at work.

I know I would have no friends left if they could ever hear my inner thoughts.

Source: http://ruminations.com/

Current Mood: Amused