Archives, eh
-
# For Zeus's sake, don't show me on national television
Dear D1,
I write you this letter but post it to a public forum – well, technically public even if negative two readers doesn’t amount to much of a forum – so that there can be no question of my wishes should something happen and I am either in a persistent vegetative state or otherwise incapable of communicating because of stroke, dementia or an ill-fated chainsaw adventure that resulted in me losing my hands, eyes, tongue and hoof-tapping capabilities. Painful and terminal illness… well, let’s leave that one, we can decide it on a case by case basis.
So. I’m fucked. Just lying around like some dirty hippy. Insensate or at least incapable of enjoying any sensations I can pick up. Unresponsive. Possibly wearing an adult diaper. In fact, especially if I’m wearing an adult diaper. Sounds like life basically sucks, so in light of that I would like to die, please.
Now, there are a lot of intrusive pricks who think they know better than I (henceforth referred to as “Dickheads”) and would like nothing better than to make me hang around waiting on their invisible pink unicorn to adjudicate. I’m supposed to hang around for some beardo to make up his mind if I should stay or if I should go. All very well and good, but their particular beardo isn’t the beardo whose opinion actually matters, the beardo who is getting my soul after I finish the dregs and spit out the grinds2. But because the dickheads apparently have not yet had their throats stepped on and told they are naughty, we’re going to have to be creative.
They say it’s up to “God” when I die? Okay dokie. I can go with this. Only, I don’t believe this “God” fellow is paying sufficient attention to all that goes in this world. Even if he is paying attention, he must be a lazy bastard, so we’re going to have to force his hand. Here’s the plan. First we get a tinnie and take it up to the top of, say, Mt Erebus. Put me in it along with, oh, a kilo of C4 rigged up with a mercury switch; a five litre glass bottle of sulfuric acid in my lap; a vial of polonium; and one irate tiger. If an irate tiger can’t be found, just an ordinary tiger will do and I’ll try my best to sing off-key to it. Oh, and a banana; I might get hungry. Set the boat on fire and then push me down the slope until gravity takes effect.
By now we should be in full compliance with the wishes of the Dickheads. It’s all up to their “God”. If he wants me to die, well, here’s a perfect opportunity to do bugger all. Hell, if he doesn’t care he can leave well enough alone. However, if he genuinely wants me to live then he can bloody well get off his arse and stop being so damn passive. God, “God”, carpe diem, mate. Life is passing you by and it’s going to keep doing so unless you get off your arse and make something of yourself. Yeah, so if he does care, if he wants me to hang about in crippling agony – if we make the death decision – or whatever, then so be it. All he has to do is make sure I survive the trip down and the, you know, Antarctic climate. Should be a cinch, I reckon.
Yours, gilmae.
1 Or if D should be unavailable due to a) coming to her senses, or b) selfishly leaving me all alone in this cold world, whomever has been silly enough to be my BFF.
2 Although I really hope Cino decides to argue the point and Zeus is forced to fight her for me. Of course, he’d send in a proxy to do the actual fighting since Cino is a girl. I’m thinking mud wrestling with Athena. Particularly if Athena looks like Grace Park.
-
# Links for 2008-02-09
-
# The irony is I found this transcript on Google
“Did you hear about these Austrian researches who claim that Google is creating unacceptable monopolies in many areas of the worldwide web?”
“Like what?”
“Well, duh! Search.”
“What? Search? Google has about a 57% market share. That’s a monopoly?”
“And Gmail”
“The web mail client used by one fifth as many people as Yahoo Mail or Hotmail each?”
“They are accessing knowledge about individuals and companies.”
“The knowledge that those individuals and companies put on the internet?”
“They operate many other services and are probably colluding with other players!”
“Probably? Is that, like, they are probably being run by a conglomerate of the Russian mafia and Detroit auto manufacturers intent on sabotaging alternative fuel vehicles?”
“Derka Dur!”
“Uh huh.”
“Where are you getting these
facts anyway?” “I Googl…oh. Shit!”
“Exactly.”
”...what’s that?”
“Oh no. Oh no, it’s Google! Run, save yourself!!”
“It’s too late. Oh I’m sorry I doubted you, I’m sor&^#signal lost
-
# obAdvert
Am I the only one whose first, second…n-1, and nth reactions to the Nokia N-Series commercials, the ones that say “There’s a thing in my pocket” is to ask “Is it the One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them?” in the hope that maybe this time you’ll get to eat the little bastard?
Speaking of which, there’s a weekly round up of Australian-focused blogs to which I make some small contributing effort. Beware, it is pretty insular – although for some reason not as much as the source material – so if Australian news and politics as reported by people with little impulse control and very developed blockquoting skills are of no interest, Missing Link is not for you.
Sorry Ken, I know you wanted an advert that described Missing Link as “an excellent way for newcomers to discover the hidden wealth of the ozplogosphere”. I just can’t help but feel that there is a wealth of original content out there – beyond that which shows up in the Arts and Sports sections – that Missing Link isn’t aware of because of the predominant focus on the cargo cult culture that Catallaxy, Club Troppo, and LP are merely the grand poobahs of.
