Ray Bradbury said, ""

Encyclopedia Dramatica

Imagine Wikipedia without its loyal army of aspies and unemployed pedants guarding against vandalism, and contributed to entirely by teenagers.

Imagine no further.

Warning: extremely NSFW. You thought Ace's "calimari salad with a topping of headwound" was bad? Think again.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 30, 2007 20:26 EST | Permalink | comments |
discoveries

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True Facts About Ron Paul

• Due to a traumatic childhood accident, many of Ron Paul's internal organs are transplanted from a baboon.
• Including his sex organs.
• Ron Paul's twin brother went on to become a famous talkshow host.
• Ron Paul's favorite literary character: Gregg Stillson.
• Least favorite: that Geico gecko.
• Ron Paul once dismembered a grizzly bear with his bare hands.
• In a museum display.
• Ron Paul has never been seen to eat, drink, or defecate.
• Though he has been seen plugging himself into outlets.
• Ron Paul was on the Grassy Knoll that fateful day in Dallas.
• He was chasing pigeons with a flyswatter.
• Ron Paul does not wear a tinfoil hat.
• He does wear a tinfoil speedo.
• Ron Paul is proficient at capoira and jujitsu.
• However, he only spars against the 12 year olds at Galveston's International House-o-Kickass.
• Ron Paul is fluent in seven languages.
• Three of them are Klingon dialects.
• Ron Paul is allergic to children.
• That doesn't stop him from wearing his favorite leather jacket.
• Ron Paul once played lead guitar for Kiss.
• Gene Simmons is still terrified of him.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 30, 2007 10:40 EST | Permalink | comments (2) |
politics, humor, spamvoting2008

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A Conversation with a Ron Paul Spambot

Me: You know, I would actually be sympathetic to Ron Paul's campaign if he weren't, you know, completely fucking insane. A little more Mises and a little less Lew "oh no we're all in a gulag and 9/11 was a lie did I mention Mama Moonbat is right" Rockwell.

RP Spambot:

Me: You see, any candidate who explicitly condemns inflation, the pernicious effects of taxation, government intervention, and loose constitutional interpretation, would normally get my vote in less time than it takes Ted Kennedy to unbuckle himself from a submerging Oldsmobile. A Hayekian who never voted for a tax increase? A candidate who has the testicular fortitude to declare that the Constitution, not the whims of paternalistic socialists, shapes the government? I would vote for him in a minute. If he were not a raving lunatic. He is to libertarianism what Dennis Kucinich is to people who are not Martians.

RP Spambot: Oh. Can I interest you in some viagra or maybe some Canadian painkillers?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 30, 2007 03:55 EST | Permalink | comments (1) |
politics, humor, libertarianism, conversations

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Chacha!

Something Awful turned me on to Chacha.com. Chacha allows you to open a real-time chat with a guide whose purpose is to aid you in your search.

Hmmm. You mean instead of the impersonal anonymity and machine efficiency of Google, people can embarrass/terrify others with the insane shit they want to find on the internet?

You know how sometimes, waking in the middle of the night, you suddenly get a burning desire to search for something that in the cool morning light makes you wonder if you were dropped as an infant? Chacha lets you inflict that on someone else!

I've always wanted to ask another person to search for "labiacat hates you" and "buzkashi cheerleader pics."

Go harass the friendly people at Chacha and tell me about it.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 29, 2007 20:38 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, discoveries

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lolcat politics: we're in ur hallz of powr tacksing ur harbls

Granted: Nothing any politician has said in long decades could be described as "eloquent" or even "not bullshit."

Granted: even in the best of times, government is an inept, perpetually horny, sticky-fingered servant. In these days, mockery and disdain of our elected servants can have as their limit only the length of time it takes for a Kennedy to swim to shore.

I mourn those days when statesmen uttered expressive, meaningful, and sane prose. When the Federalist was the standard of political discourse rather than "I voted for it before I voted against it." Read the Lincoln-Douglas debates; if you can find a single debate on that level in the last 50 years I will eat a kitten. with relish.

Our government is a servant. People forget this basic fact, imbue these hordes of well-groomed Chances* with fervor and passion, and end up voting for a Clinton.

Don't let the fancy talk fool you. Every time a politician opens its mouth an Oldsmobile gets its swim trunks.

Here is my idea: an amendment to the Constitution making Lolcat the official language of our elected representatives.

Let that sink in. Regardless of your personal politics, you must admit it would curb emotionalism, paternalism, and the general insanity we have seen over the years. Violations of Godwin's Law and an ever-increasing trust in its omniscience would disappear almost entirely. Sex scandals? Gone, or at least made much more laughable than prurient.

Would you call a kitten a fascist, deface pictures of it with little Hitler mustaches, entrust our children's education to it, ignore outbursts of lunacy from it, pin any hope on it, ignore its past membership in the KKK, let it stick cigars into your orifices, and put up with it raising taxes on you? No, you could not.

Lolcat is just what this nation needs to restore morality, vitality, and sanity to politics.

Update: This post cost a cool $40 million to produce. Research, writers and make-up artists, travel expenses, black tar heroin, French maid costumes and bunny suits, laboratories, etc. You know how it is.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 28, 2007 20:08 EST | Permalink | comments |
politics, humor, satire

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This is How I Shop

I went on a quest today in search of a coffee grinder to replace the one that martyred itself, food for my goldfish houseguest, and a pack of fishtank filters (also for my piscine houseguest).

Result: I spent an inordinate amount of time in the pet aisle playing with the dog toys, contemplating the hamster wheels, and laughing at the "gourmet cat food" clearly marketed toward the elderly. A short time ago, I would have yielded to the temptation of buying one of those nefariously wriggling weasel balls. Or even a squeak toy. But I resisted temptation.

After fooling around among the chew toys and "denture-friendly low-sodium medium rare filet mignon with sauteed mushrooms and a hint of red wine and Metamucil" cat food long enough to arouse suspicions that I may be a werewolf or old man in disguise, I grabbed a tube of food with the most colorful fish on it. No filters, so my piscine houseguest will simply have to either stop shitting where he eats or buy one himself on eBay.

Then came the hard part. The coffee paraphernalia aisle. Mind reeling: at $20 a coffeemaker I could buy, right now, forty seven ambrosia-dispensers. Or seven Bunn coffee makers. Or a new computer, Mr. Coffee and three of his immigrant relatives, and an aristocratic Bunn. I got out of that lair of caffeine temptation and will grind my beans using my teeth until I can safely re-enter that den of iniquity.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 28, 2007 18:07 EST | Permalink | comments |
life, boredomblogging

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If I Were a Rich Man...

I would have a special order of the Oxford English Dictionary made for me. Lead-bound and precision-weighted. I would hire a heavily-muscled German female swim team to carry it for me as I fund and host political debates. These bikini'd behemoths would be trained to let fly a lead-bound lexicon at the head of any politician who uses weasel words. As one after another politician is concussed with English, the last one standing would receive a complimentary fascimile of the Constitution and a martini.*

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 28, 2007 03:48 EST | Permalink | comments |
boredomblogging

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In Which I Steal Jeff Goldstein's Thunder In a Mock Conversation With My Goldfish Houseguest, 2

Me: So, my Nietzchean little friend, you believe we are all doomed to an infinity of meaningless repetition, endlessly monotonous wars holocausts weddings idiocies rapes dog-walkings playground swingings and plagues. Within a timescale dwarfing a billion parardhas, infinite me's drop infinite pinches of food into an infinite number of you's bowls. And this pleases you?

Goldfish:

Me: You don't find it disturbing in the least?

Goldfish:

Me: That I will make a california roll out of you an infinite number of times and follow it with an infinite number of finely brewed cups of barooti tea?

Goldfish: *gulp*

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 27, 2007 18:47 EST | Permalink | comments (4) |
humor, philosophy, boredomblogging, conversations

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Blogging will be light tonight...

My coffee-grinder went 'splodeydope today. I'm now in a process of both mourning, and trying to figure out why Mrs. Coffee is now getting funding from CAIR.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 26, 2007 21:02 EST | Permalink | comments |
life, blogging

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Loluglydog

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 26, 2007 06:16 EST | Permalink | comments (3) |
humor, dogs, morning

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Islamic Rage: 1

Where does Islamic Rage come from?

It comes directly from its child-rapist, schizophrenic, xenophobic, misogynistic, pillaging, mass-murdering founder, Mahound.

Take a look for yourself. What page of the Koran is not an exhortation toward the violent oppression of opposing religions? What anecdote of the Hadith shows Mahound to have exercised even a Patrick Bateman level of sanity, rationality, and morality?

The whole of Mahound's life, from his bloodthirsty words and bloodier actions, is a rejection of that civilizing influence found in almost every other religion: the principle that human life is sacred.

Where human life is held to be sacred, corollary beliefs are bound to appear. The Golden Rule, isonomic law, justice as a process of protecting the innocent from the predations of the evil, the replacement of vendetta with law, are but the first expansions. Where Man is seen as something higher than a worm or splatter of coagulated blood, there is a possibility of the institution of civilization and tolerance.

These principles do not exist in the Muslim world, nor in any culture which has adopted hatred of humanity as its guiding principle. Look at the Dark Ages in Europe, the history of Africa, the stagnant millenia of Taoism and Hinduism, the atrocities of 20th century fascist states, and the explicitly anti-human stance of radical environmentalism. The differences between these cesspools are dwarfed by their unifying hatred of human life.

What sets Islam apart from other, mercifully dead or dying death-cults, is its explicitly violent invocation of odium theologicum. It has historically proven far easier to crush the human spirit over the span of generations, rather than in the heat of violent confrontation. This is why most death-cults have used the slow toxin of religious hatred to erect a relatively bloodless but infinitely embracing system of control.

Islam, however, chose from its very inception the bloody course of subjugation. From the beginning it rejected the slow extinction of the human soul in favor of the bloody dismemberment of the body that houses it. As it turns out, blitzkrieg attacks are effective in the service of religious fascists as well as secular fascists.

Islam spread like cancer throughout the world by means of its combination of rapid assault and even quicker means of assimilation. A sword slash and a few sentences in Arabic.*

And hence one very potent source of conflict with Western civilization, apart from its bloodthirsty ideology itself. A civilization dependent upon persuasion, reason, and the gradual accumulation of social institutions that have proven favorable to the protection of human life, cannot move fast enough against the blitzkrieg attack of Islam.

Taoism and Hinduism, those slow-moving gears grinding humanity into stagnation over centuries, lost their power in as glacial a timespan. The rise of western fascist ideologies, themselves born of Western civilization, still relied upon the slow spread of their poison.

Western civilization now is threatened, not by chronic poisoning, but by decapitation and mutilation.

As I previously pointed out, there can be no analogous Reformation in Islam as there was in Christianity, for the simple reason that the founder of the former was a madman and that of the latter was a gentleman. A reworking of Islam would require the complete rejection of Mahound and his morality, rather than a stripping-away of accumulated layers of doctrines. As the very core of Islam is rotten, it is futile to expect a reformation toward the explicit morality necessary to survive in a civilization not identical to hell.

Comments and fatwas welcome.

* Update: This idea, a mismatch of timescales, also proves a potent factor in Islamic anti-Semitism. What other religion but Judaism requires so much of its converts, that they must prove themselves capable of shouldering Mosaic Law through years of study? How does a man, who must study for years to call himself a son of Abraham, compete with a man who must merely rote-recite three sentences in a language he need not even understand? By the time the former has even begun on his process of conversion, a thousand and one killers will have appeared.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 25, 2007 18:45 EST | Permalink | comments |
islamomisia

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Late Night Wikigroaning

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_dwarf
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Dwarf

I have no doubt that wikigroaning is a sign of the End Times.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 24, 2007 23:34 EST | Permalink | comments (1) |
memery, blog nocturne

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The Things I Hope For

A couple posts ago I blogged about my attempts to acquire a Christopher Walken voice.

I had an idea. Accents are infectious. Spend enough time with a Southerner or a New Yorker and you'll find out. So, the best way to adopt Walken's voice ought to be simply to hear his voice regularly, in such a daily frequency that one starts to unknowingly pick up his cadences and tonality. Hence my daily regimen of at least four hours of Walken clips.

Since I am past the age of eleven and hence exponentially less capable of aural language acquisition, I require practice. This is where Shakespeare comes in. The iambic pentameter lends itself naturally to his cadence, while the subject matter lends itself to a menacing and creepy delivery. Curiously enough, the Federalist Papers also work. It helps if you have absolutely no interest in what your neighbors think of hearing Hamlet at two a.m.

My daily practice alone ought to be very efficient. I might even decide to finally get a television so I could collect and play continually all 110 of Walken's movies and all of his SNL appearances.

Why would I go to such lengths to acquire his voice, you ask? Simple:
1. I don't have many more years of clearly annunciated speech and might as well speak in an interesting manner during that time.
2. I, like every other kid, wanted to be either Christopher Walken or an astronaut.
3. If I succeed I will have lots of fun.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 24, 2007 18:33 EST | Permalink | comments |
life, boredomblogging

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In Which I Steal Laurence Simon's Thunder with a Shopping List Post

Nowadays I eat like a Sicilian trying desperately to avoid scurvy. I am for some reason able to eat nothing but pepper-spaghetti and fruits, for weeks at a time. This is a step up from my all-Ramen-soup phase, and I suspect it is closer to a normal human diet. Considering that my grocery shopping style usually resembles that of a pregnant woman and her 8 year old husband, there is some strange logic going on here.

I noticed this turn in my eating habits several weeks ago. Here is what I brought today, out of utterly inexplicable impulses:

1 lb cherries
2 lbs peaches
.5 lb strawberries
Dozen tomatoes
2 mangos
Dozen onions
Dozen eggs
2 boxes spaghetti
1 lb Jamaican Blue Mountain Blend whole beans
Big box of black tea
Cold cuts and bread sufficient to make 1 daily garlic/salami/pepper/horseradish sandwich

Not even a single Ramen soup! Nor a trace of the once customary "barely edible Asian or East European thing I want to eat just for the sheer hell of it."

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 24, 2007 10:16 EST | Permalink | comments |
life, boredomblogging, trivia

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Midnight's Children

To celebrate Salman Rushdie's Knighthood and the consequent seething of the Muslim world, I'm reading everything he wrote.

Last night I started "Midnight's Children." I have no idea how I lived for so long without reading Rushdie! There is a kind of manic energy juggling the words about, tossing plots and subplots and hints and impossibilities, such as would leave Dickens impotent with awe.

I believe it is fully possible that Salman Rushdie is protected by an army of devoted fans. Once you have read one of his books, you will readily raise arms against anyone attempting to still his voice. Think Stephen King or J.K. Rawling (appropriate selection. Damn.) could garner such support that they could survive years under a death sentence?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 24, 2007 08:53 EST | Permalink | comments |
books

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Never Trusted Her Anyway...

Betty Boop runs away and has an acid trip. Just like a floozy.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 24, 2007 00:06 EST | Permalink | comments |
music, discoveries, morning, blog nocturne

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Leaves a Funny Taste In Your Mouth...

Damn. One of the last funny sketches SNL did.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 23, 2007 11:50 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor

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Your Real Life Bradbury Moment

Yesterday morning I walked past a truck labelled "Nelson's Master Plumber: The Original Earth Surgeon"

Let that sink in.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 23, 2007 02:28 EST | Permalink | comments |
life, beauty, morning

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Sir Rushdie

I'll make a deal with the followers of History's Most Famous Schizophrenic Child-Rapist and Mass Murderer.

You may continue to blow up embassies, burn straw effigies of the Queen, turn over cars, and in general carry out your little bloodthirsty lunatic desires all because a writer dared imply that you are bloodthirsty car-tipping lunatic followers of a demented pervert; in exchange all I ask is that, to reciprocate, one of the 5,467,432,813,260,223,002 Holiest Places in Islam be nuked to glass for each time Mein Kampf reached #1 Bestseller in the Arab world. Fair deal, no?

Who knew literary criticism could be so fun?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 22, 2007 06:46 EST | Permalink | comments |
islamomisia

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Morning Thoughts

I have resolved to eventually carry nothing but $2 bills as cash. People take paper money for granted and ignore its politician-friendly inflationary potential, but a $2 bill still arouses a healthy suspicion and a hearty "what the hell are you trying to pull?" Someone who has never thought about how flimsy a greenback is, will experience for a moment as he tries to make change with my $2 bill, a small degree of the suspicion that people first felt at the introduction of cellulose wealth.

Ingmar Bergman's 1957 movie, "The Seventh Seal," contains in the character Jons the coolest and most cynical character I've ever seen. He is Antisthenes and James Dean, every tough small-town alcoholic Irish priest rolled up with every existentialist community college philosophy professor, an older brother taunting you to eat worms and a father willing to let you learn by yourself that firecrackers can hurt. Watch this movie to see cynicism personified.



The Hypothetician. I hate this kind of conversationalist. The Hypothetician assails you with conditional statement after conditional statement, swarming reality out of the window with transfinite modal logic. "Wouldn't it be cool if you had wings and you had a dog and your dog had wings and if the sky was bright purple instead of blue or if the sky was even yellow but not green...if you could kill Napoleon would you do it with your winged dog or... and then would you have run against Richard Nixon... what do you say? Would you?" How can you respond to 15 minutes of utter irreality except by hitting the Hypothetician with an imaginary 2X4?



My goldfish houseguest is brooding. No, he's not reading Faust or tearing out his hair, but he is close. The poor fellow stares off into space, as if knowing the vast gulfs of uninhabitably arid distance between himself and a female goldfish. He stares and sighs, and sighs and stares, and occasionally orders a pizza. He is looking at me right now, as I write, with an expression of equal sorrow and hunger. I can't help but feel that he desperately envies me my opposable thumbs and would kill me in a second if he thought he could acquire them for himself.



Today I am testing my belief in an ordered universe. I am relying for transportation upon the bank posting my paycheck before 9:40 a.m.; if it does not, I am in for a long walk and a short paycheck. Will the web of trust between me and the innumerable people involved in this transaction maintain integrity? Or will it dissolve due to the price of tea in China? Therein lays a struggle against entropy none but the bravest and most foolish will attempt.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 22, 2007 05:51 EST | Permalink | comments |
bonfire material, boredomblogging

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Because...

Sometimes you need the creepiness of Poe and Christopher Walken.



Update: Yes, I am using Youtube to compile the world's largest collection of Christopher Walken clips. I play them while I sleep, in the hopes that I will hypnogogically acquire his voice. One can always hope.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 21, 2007 05:43 EST | Permalink | comments |
discoveries, morning

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Back

Damn, you wouldn't believe how much damage a Norse god can inflict with a laptop. Beggar parts and circuits went flying...

Blogging will resume as normal.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 20, 2007 16:30 EST | Permalink | comments (2) |
blogging

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Sorry, but

Blogging will be light for a while while I beat Loki for throwing the computer at a homeless man.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 17, 2007 03:53 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, blogging

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A Word of Advice From Goethe

You're tearing your hair out trying to solve a problem. Your desk is cluttered with scrap paper, rough drafts, cigarette butts, and coffee-stained reference books. It's three in the morning and you've only scratched the surface. Your mind is reeling with facts and figures and algorithms.

At this moment of divine agony, you feel an irresistable urge to hop onto eBay and start looking up poodles for sale.

Don't.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 14, 2007 07:27 EST | Permalink | comments |
boredomblogging

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The Pooklekufr Bullshit Filter 1.6

I'm working on producing an explicit statement of my current bullshit filter. Version 1.6 includes added protection against utopians, politicians, spammers, race-baiters, environmentalists, philosophers, Hari Krishnas, New-Age crystal/wood/harmony/psi/gaia/ki/magnet morons, Scientologists, post-modern critics, moral relativists, people who torture science into politics and theology, people who torture the Constitution into science and business, and bioethicists.

Version 1.6 does not, however, offer any protection against my constant gullibility in everyday things. I'm still working on those bugs.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 14, 2007 00:09 EST | Permalink | comments |
memery, blog nocturne

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Hey, this gives me an idea

So, Muhammad's many bodily fluids were used as toothpaste, engine lubricant, facial cream, hairgel, antiperspirant, and heavy-duty bathroom cleaner. Who would have thought the effluvia of a schizophrenic pedophilic slaughterer would be such a boon to humanity?

Why not capitalize on this typically Islamic obsession with a strict ex cathedra bureaucratic regulation of orifices?

I present Mo'Spunk! 9000. It waxes cars to a glossy sheen, gives hairdo's hours of lift, cleanses and exfoliates pores, removes caked-on grease spots off dishware without scrubbing, polishes silverware, reduces thermal viscosity meltdown in engines, brightens teeth, softens water, leaves your breath smelling minty and refreshing, removes old grass and blood stains from clothing and sheets, cleans windows without leaving ugly streaks, waterproofs leather, provides up to 8 hours of irresistably seductive scent, and, to top it all off, can be added to tonic water to make a refreshing non-alcoholic beverage the family will love!

That being said, I'm off to Mecca to sign an initial contract for 5,000 gallons of "100% Pure Genuine Prophet Extract" from Abul Abuzaid, my trustworthy contact in the Arab business world. I don't know where the man gets his supplies, but you can be sure I am in absolute awe of his business acumen.

*Yes, one of my aspirations in life is to have a fatwa declared against me. Unfortunately this will never happen because everyone knows muslims are peaceful and tolerant, except, indeed, when they are bloodthirsty fanatics.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 13, 2007 06:08 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, islamomisia

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Two Things

These little bastards stole my heart the other day. I now long to devour entire populations of these Nubian hyperactive smurfs.

A bibliophilic serendipity occured to me today. I had finished Salman Rushdie's "The Satanic Verses," and, while walking around with an infantile gaze, I found an excellent translation of Goethe's "Dr. Faustus." The exact book I wanted! This made me wonder at how often these things happen. Have you ever, just finishing a book, suddenly found the exact one in which your bookworm wanderlust had been aroused?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 12, 2007 20:26 EST | Permalink | comments |
books, life

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Book Crash

For bookworms there is a peculiar sensation as one finishes a very good book. A feeling that makes you wonder how the hell the French could have chosen the wrong thing to call "le petit mort."

You see, man has long had virtual reality devices. The only difference between a book and a cyberdeck, is that any idiot can plug into the latter's reality. It takes a little more preparation to make that leap using a book.

And just like the virtual reality of Gibson and the Wachowski brothers, there is something in an abrupt yanking-out that the mind cannot handle. It is the sensation of the mind, running along the fast-moving airport conveyor belt of data, suddenly meeting the motionless concrete path at the end and having to pull off all manner of Buster Keaton moves just to stay upright. It is the sensation a computer might feel when the user sadistically rips out the 100Mbs cable and plugs in the 56kbs dial-up. It is the perfectly legal equivalent of coming off a prolonged meth jag.

I know this feeling well. As I turn the last page and encounter the blank pages where, I imagine, the publishers expect you to write your own ending, part of me refuses to accept the humdrum world around me. Return to the literary womb, Oz? Get back onto the dream machine? Impossible, the magic is spent for now, the quaintly labelled bottle is empty, the modem is dead. Your only choice is to wait for another journey.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 12, 2007 06:02 EST | Permalink | comments |
books, introspection

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Musical quirk

I love Griot kora music, Tuvan throatsinging, and Indian music (both classical and Bollywood). But these wonderful genres come from cultures that in most ways disgust me. Same goes for the 60's rock I like.

Is there some explanation for why some of the most beautiful music comes from some of the most stagnant cultures on earth? Why is the age-old adage, "never listen to a musician when he isn't performing," often painfully true?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 11, 2007 22:16 EST | Permalink | comments |
music, boredomblogging, blog nocturne

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Crunch!

Dennis Miller delivers a decapitating blow to Harry Reid, follows it up by spraying lightning from his palms, and ends by stomping through Reid's scrawny chest while emitting a pained Bruce Lee "hiya!"

Damn, I miss his old HBO show. (Hat tip: Mischa)

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 11, 2007 03:34 EST | Permalink | comments |
politics, discoveries

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In Which I Steal Jeff Goldstein's Thunder In A Mock Conversation With My Guest Goldfish

Me: I see you've settled in quite nicely there. Made yourself at home.

Goldfish:

Me: I see you also repainted my kitchen while I was at work.

Goldfish:

Me: And changed my homepage to www.guppiesgonewild.com.

Goldfish:

Me: No offense, but touch my toothbrush again and I swear to G-d I'll make a California roll out of you. Got that?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 10, 2007 19:48 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, boredomblogging

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Your Sunday Hendrix And Dale

Sundays are for worship, after all. If I'm going to violate the first and fourth commandments, why not do so in the service of gods such as these men?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 10, 2007 17:30 EST | Permalink | comments |
music, beauty

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Men and Women, 1

Men evolved to be efficient at the rapid activity of the hunt. Unlike the other primates, we have a generous layer of subcutaneous fat, yet we also possess a significantly higher density of hairs than any other primate covering our entire body. This is a compromise between mutually contradictory thermodynamic purposes. These hairs wick perspiration away from the skin, enormously increasing the surface area of evaporation and thus providing us, the "naked ape," with a very efficient means of cooling down after rapid exertion. Perfect for the hunter who has to freeze through night after night in preparation for 30 seconds of kill-crazy chase.

These physical traits are accompanied by mental traits. Males show a statistically significantly better grasp than females of vectors, dynamics, and other problems encountered in getting a spear from point A to a gazelle's heart at point B. Man evolved to be efficient at the rapid kill, his mind capable of the rapid determinations of velocity and angle necessary to catch prey in that small window of opportunity.

Women evolved to be efficient at the selection of edible forage material over poisonous material. Besides the physical traits supporting this such as less developed musculature and lower metabolic rates, mental differences exist. Females show a statistically significant better ability at pattern recognition, data processing, and other skills necessary to recognize and distinguish edible plants from the multitude of poisonous plants. Ethnobotanists have discovered that the plant vocabulary of hunters and gatherers is extraordinary in its depth and accuracy in distinguishing plants, plant features, and seasons. This is due to women.

All this points to the reason why women always win arguments. They are efficient data miners. Women have evolved to absorb huge quantities of data (quick: how many different plants can you see in this picture?), filter it according to past experience, and patiently pick over those sometimes inexpressible similarities that enable one to eat without dying. That this skill is applied to arguments, is obvious. Whereas a man attempts to argue in a straight line between his position and the position he wishes to persuade another, showing little patience with tangents and preferring relatively large, obvious chunks of information over a series of tiny observations; a woman will pore over anything and everything that has something to bear on the issue and construct as meticulously detailed an argument as she would were she to describe the recognizable features of a taro root compared to a Death root.

The result is obvious. A man argues, "A leads to B leads to C leads to D. If you try to get to D without B you will fail. Why don't you see this?"

A woman argues, "well, A is alittle like B in aspects a,g,h,t, and z, but D is more like F because it is similar in aspects x,i,r,n,q, and t; but both A and F are similar in aspect l, which is more important than aspects a,g,h,t,x,i,r,n,q, and z because every time I notice z a g is always present except in this case so maybe z is irrelevant but you've got to admit that g with f proves that l is different and therefore..."

How does a man respond to this? "How the hell do you get from A to F?"

"What do you mean 'get'? Now that I think about it conditions 1,3,5,6, and 11 are met in both A and B even though they differ in aspects r,u,p,and w; so my case is even more clear."

Which one do you think will end up winning? The rapid hunter or the patient data miner? I rest my case.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 10, 2007 11:31 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, philosophy, discoveries, best posts

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Note to Comment Spammers

You know, telling me I have a "Nice site, great guestbook" makes it easy for me to instantly dismiss the comment as spam. I don't even have to expand it.

If you wanted to get my attention, you drinkers of the body fluids of menstruating guinea pigs, you would insult my site. "Shitty design...you suck...idiot, can't you tell..." Trolls are seductive in their gnarled way. Seductive enough that almost every blogger is compelled to instantly examine whatever fecal specimen a troll has left upon his digital porch. Think about it: you wake up, look out on your porch, and there is a burning bag of dogshit and a pile of junkmail. Which one gets your attention first?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 10, 2007 10:32 EST | Permalink | comments (3) |
blogging, spam horrors

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Breaking News: John Edwards' Former Campaign Manager: "I pack a chainsaw WAT?!"

Language Warning

She added, "I'll skin your ass raw/ And if my day keeps going this way/I just might break something tonight!"

Sounds funny, but it's not. Do you think Denis Leary wants to re-do the "Asshole" song because of her 11th commandment, "Thou shalt use cunt instead"? There is a poetry to the phrase, "happy asshole" that just isn't there in "happy cunt." Even if you ignore the sexist origins of the orifices in question, it's just not there.

(Hat tip: Ace) Read the rest

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 09, 2007 17:49 EST | Permalink | comments |
politics, humor, news

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Retired Gods

I got an interesting job today. It doesn't pay much in the way of money, but I'll receive as many obscene clay figurines, mummified cats, and ritual daggers as anyone could ever want.

My phone rang a little after noon. When I answered it I heard snickering followed by a thunderous shushing noise. What sounded like a violent shuffleboard skirmish slowly ground to a clanging halt.

"You Tom the Pooklekufr," a voice finally asked in what sounded like a parody of a Middle Eastern accent.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Want to edit a blog for a bunch of old fogies who can't tell a mouse from a freshly slaughtered baby?"

"Sure. Anyone who uses freshly slaughtered babies to control their computer is a friend of mine."

"My thoughts exactly. Let me put Molky on the line and he'll tell you more."

The phone went dead for awhile as, in the background, I heard what sounded like a barfight between drunken Irishmen and PCP-addled baboons. Thunder cracked softly from an even greater distance.

Molky, when he finally fought his way to the phone, spoke in a pleasantly cultured voice and used French phrases like "vis a vis" alot. We arranged a contract and now I am happy to announce myself General Editor of his blog.

Go check it out. Seriously, part of the contract lets them rip out my soul through my left nostril if traffic decreases below 1,000 visitors a day. That Molky is one persuasive bastard. He could talk the panties off the Devil.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 09, 2007 15:22 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, blogging, odd news

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Woo Hoo! Books!

I got Mark Twain's "The Devil's Race Track: the "Great Dark" Writings," and Salmon Rushdie's "The Satanic Verses."

No, I'm not having a "Mysterious Stranger" kind of day. Thing is, I wandered between William Carlos Williams' "In the American Grain," George Carlin's "Three Times Carlin: an Orgy of George," David Foster Wallace's "The Infinite Jest," and Douglas Hofstadter's "Godel Escher Bach." Then I realized any combination of those would drive me insane.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 09, 2007 12:53 EST | Permalink | comments |
books

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The Importance of Being Absurd, 3

"“All parties without exception, when they seek for power, are varieties of absolutism” Pierre-Joseph Proudhon wrote.

Party:
An organization to gain political power.
An occasion on which people can assemble for social interaction and entertainment.
A band of people associated temporarily in some activity.
A group of people gathered together for pleasure.
A person involved in legal proceedings.
To have or participate in a party.

If each and every party seeking a "means of achieving purposes" is a variant of absolutism, then each and every gathering of one or more individuals for some intent is to be condemned. If each and every gathering of one or more individuals is to be condemned, then society itself must be rejected. If society itself, composed of many individuals, is to be rejected, each of those individuals must be shunned and condemned. If each man, woman, and child must be regarded with disgust and horror, then humanity as a whole must be eliminated. If and only if humanity is eliminated will the natural order be restored.

Proudhon was being unusually vague when he said, "property is theft," when he logically should have said, "humanity is evil."

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 09, 2007 03:41 EST | Permalink | comments |
philosophy

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Happiness

Listen to this.

Now watch this:



And this:



Tell me that didn't brighten your mood.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 07, 2007 21:24 EST | Permalink | comments |
beauty, blog nocturne

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For the Children!

Every bad policy you name has had someone support it "for the children." (hat tip: Ace)

[Deep breath and Vulcan mind-meld with Koz]

Screw 'em.

Ever notice that every time you hear a policy so frightening you think Orwell was puffing the peace pipe, it has the support of children? It is not jihadis and socialists we must worry about, but these psychotic midgets intent on controlling our every move. Look at this little fuhrer in training wheels. Would you buy a used car from him? Would you trust him to negotiate talks with Kim Jong Il?

It's high time we abandon those hyperactive primates, those non-productive and parasitical members of our society, to the Darwinian selection inherent in allowing them access to anything and everything remotely lethal. I feel it is grossly immoral not to equip every little boy and girl with as much guns, pornography, booze, medical waste, and drugs as their little arms can hold. Hell, they've got red wagons and Hello Kitty purses. Let them use those.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 06, 2007 21:55 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, satire, blog nocturne, best posts

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The Importance of Being Absurd, 2: Nihilism

The universe is not only mind-bogglingly big, but strange.

Upon an orb under whose infinitesimal crust, composed of the ashes of three generations of stars, molten oceans of metal generate electromagnetic potentials off each other. While this orb falls through geodesics in a space-time gravity well toward a thermonuclear explosion capable of containing 300,000 Earths, humans exist who feel meaning and order do not exist. And furthermore, these very humans who see no order in the nature of things find it child's play to impose their own order upon such a tragically chaotic existence. We call these humans the French.

It is perhaps understandable that these humans find no humor in the cosmic joke that is their existence. After all, it took these stumbling apes almost as long as one trillionth the age of the universe to discover the laws governing rainfall and the presence of the moon. What can you expect?

They agree that nature is amoral. Yet the rigidity of nature's laws and the integrity demanded of humans to obey these laws in their unyielding exactitude means nothing to them. Never in another two ten-thousandth's of a percent of the earth's age will they grasp that in these laws exist the reason for absolute morality.

They state that the sheer mystery of G-d vitiates any meaning in stating His existence. This too is understandable. They are faced with a world more marvellously intricate and full of mind-blowing images than any religion. Rather than view this as evidence of a G-d who laughs Himself incontinent at every attempt by man to claim complete understanding of His thoughts, they view this as a sign of His senility or psychosis.

Hence my idea of a continuing series of posts on the importance of being absurd. Absurd, as in Albert Camus' book "The Rebel." Like any self-respecting French philosopher, Camus grabs an argument in his teeth and shakes it until every possible false ramification and mistaken conclusion falls out. Like Camus and the fortuituously named philosophical school, in these posts I will, with bull-dog intensity and ferocity, rip an argument to shreds by extending it as much as logically possible.

I think the French would be proud to know their alternative to the Socratic Method is a powerful antibiotic for the pernicious philosophies that prey upon man.

The only downside for such a fisking in extremo is that no matter how thoroughly I tear at an argument and bury it in the mud of its own illogic, someone somewhere is guaranteed to hold the argument in precisely such a battered condition. Well, that's life, and this is a leg of mutton.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 06, 2007 21:20 EST | Permalink | comments |
philosophy, blog nocturne

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The Importance of Being Absurd, Part One: Nihilism

The universe is amoral. Nature, to borrow a phrase from Terry Pratchett, "is the other side of the coin on which good and evil are but one face." The intricacy of cosmic laws tell us that behind even the simplest phenemonon there lays a transfinite chain of "why?"s leading directly to the hand of G-d.

And that is just the easy part. G-d? The difference between quantum mechanics and the Creator: people can actually understand the former. I'm not talking about literacy in sacred documents; I'm talking about the ability to state with a straight face an inherent reason for an ethical law. The kicker of it is that even the tightly woven ethics of Talmudic Judaism is meaningless unless man has first chosen to obey them. The most exquisite moral argument, proving the Creator's will in some specific matter, fails in the face of one choice.

Of course, those choices have objective consequences. He who pulls a mote from his neighbor's eye usually gets a beam cracked over his head. Even this causal flow is amoral, for it is still man who chooses one outcome over the other as preferable. History shows us scores of societies who voluntarily engaged in prolonged suicide, scores of humans who preferred the grossest output from the input of their moral behavior.

As Ludwig von Mises observed of economics, "all economics may tell you is that such and such a policy is insufficient to obtain the goals sought by acting man. It tells nothing of those goals themselves." Economic law tells us it is easy to produce a Hell on earth given a bullhorn and enough guns; it does not have anything to say about whether a man should choose Hell or Disneyland. Morality teaches us that although the erection of a Hell on earth is evil, what one views as "evil" is subjective. Just ask the Marquis de Sade or Stalin about their pet utopias.

How exactly does one know that the vision of Sade, Mao, Hitler, Minh, Saddam, Gein, bin Laden, Dzherzinsky, and Stalin about the nature of humanity is abhorrent and not to be tolerated by the sane? "Because they thrive on suffering and death, bringing harm to others for the sake of pain. They favor death over life, atavistic pleasure over justice, emotions over reason, and military marches over Charlie Parker," one almost instinctively responds. Yes, but how does one contend rationally with an individual who finds nothing wrong with the idea of twisting humanity into his image?

You don't. You destroy him and call it a day. And then go on to live in the vision of humanity for which you find arguments convincing.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 06, 2007 01:47 EST | Permalink | comments |
philosophy, blog nocturne

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I Am Legend(ORA and Language Alert)

This morning on my way to work, I accidentally stepped into a Miland movie. It was partly circumstance, and partly the fact that I decided to try my coworker's advice regarding beggars. He had threatened to choke me silly after reading about my propensity for giving money to beggars. He told me I was an idiot for "giving money to drug addicts who probably sold their WIC checks for dope and now get some dumbass like you to support their mulatto crack babies."

At 4 a.m. the streets were silent, deserted, and the pre-dawn darkness hung over everything. The world was lifeless, Buffalo a ruined husk in the apocalypse. In the shadows and at the edge of my vision, barely seen, dark shapes creeped. Them. Not slow mutants, but beggars. As I walked, a shadow would take form in the distance, approaching with a funereal pace. I hurried past many a nebuluous figure melting back into the embrace of the night. As I walked a cry would spring up from the darkness before me, alerting others to my presence.

Then I came near a bus shelter. Half a dozen lurched out of the shadows. I was surrounded.

One shuffled closer to me than the others and began mumbling, waving a scratch-off lottery ticket. Another echolaliacally repeated the word "smoke." Others mumbled and shuffled closer, marking territory against their competitors in the hoped-for cannibalism.

I brushed past two and kept walking at a fast pace. Soon only the lottery bearer was following.

"Fa'da' gee fa'da' fo't," he repeated as he adjusted his pace to match mine. "A gee ugh t'kt'k."

Soon I realized that he had said "five dollars. Give me five dollars for it," and meant the ticket. He enthusiastically pointed out the words he had scratched off and happily announced it a winner.

Noticing I made no attempt to bite at whatever incredible offer he was presenting me, he again began speaking in tongues. He followed me for forty minutes, over the length of just about three miles.

He began pointing toward the 24 hour gas stations, beckoning me with an unintellible "cash t'kt'ik!" and pushing the ticket into my hand. At the two mile mark he began to tire of the steady quick pace and became more comprehensible, as well as more threatening.

"Why we walking so far?" He asked. "Because I am trying to get to work on time and you're trying to get five dollars out of me," I responded.

Our conversation slowly blossomed.

"Just give me the five dollars and I'll give you the ticket. I know you got five dollars," he offered in surprisingly coherent English.

"No. I've got no cash on me. If I had cash, I would be asleep right now instead of walking through the ghetto before dawn. I wouldn't be buying a losing lottery ticket at 4:30 in the morning."

"Just five dollars. Give it to me."

"You realize you could have found a night job and been guaranteed to earn more than five dollars for the time you spent following me hoping for a handout?"

.
.
.

"[Grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward a convenience store] we gotta go in the store and see if you can cash it!"

"[Pulling away]I have no money on me. I said that already. Why do you want to give me a winning five dollar ticket?"

"No. Give me five dollars. Come with me."

.
.
.

After awhile he became more forceful with his demand, abandoning all pretense with the lottery ticket. He was determined to get that five dollars no matter what.

Eventually he said, "Look, I'm trying to be nice. Just give me the five dollars. You dragged me all the way down here and wasted my time for nothing. You owe me. You owe me."

This pissed the living fuck out of me. Literally. I felt it fly away and heard it begin mating with a pigeon. There comes a time in every man's life when he must invoke the spirit of Christian Bale. This was such a time. I responded, "The fact that you spent almost an hour begging off me tells me two things. First, you have no job to be late for. Second, no one will care if someone gouged out your eyes, slit your throat, and left you for dead in an alley way. Am I right?"

And surprisingly he crossed the road and began pestering the driver of a car at a red light.

My coworker was right. Turns out all I need to do is calmly terrify beggars and they will leave me alone.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 05, 2007 16:11 EST | Permalink | comments |
morning, beggars

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4 a.m. Long Walk

I am an involuntary morning person, but this is stretching it a little far. 4 a.m. A godawful time of day unless you are a vampiric Joe Pesci.

Meanwhile I'm off to work on foot. Only 10 miles away.

Oh, the things we do to save money. Papa wants that new computer and a carton of Camels and a fridge full of food and faster internet...

At least I'll have a good story if I have kids. "When I was younger we had to walk 10 miles to work, uphill each way, just to afford a flashy new computer."

Update 8:30 p.m.: I walked a total of 20 miles to and from an eight hour day of work. I feel like a Russian peasant being molested by a drunken circus bear. Blogging will be light for the next day or two as I get to know the inner hopes and aspirations of that lovably vodka-soaked and perpetually aroused circus bear I call exhaustion.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 04, 2007 02:09 EST | Permalink | comments (3) |
life, morning, scruffy work

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Scurrilous Sandwich Bastard

Travis Benning claims he possesses the Recipe for the One True Sandwich. He has set himself up as a Sandwich Messiah, complete with a horde of nubile girls brainwashed into worshipping the Toasted Honey Fluffernutter through honey-soaked and erotically sticky nude wrestling. He is, in short, a culinary kafir who rejects the Sandwich God, the creator of sliced bread. He, aswath like Jabba the Hutt in a pool of honey and nubile sycophants, dares proselytize a False Sandwich.

Though he will surely burn in the everlastingly toasty toasters of hell, I do not blame him. Many have thought they found the Recipe. Some have even spent their lives in alchemical laboratories trying to attain it, ending up with only a blot of mustard and a lone banana pepper.

Allow me to stem this tide of False Sandwiches by revealing the True Sandwich. There is no sandwich but the Hitman and the Pooklekufr is its prophet.

If you possess the testicular fortitude to face the Hitman in all its glory, you must train rigorously. You must know kung-fu and Mandarin, the art of opening a beer bottle with a cigarette lighter and the art of velvet Elvis painting, how to please a woman with only your pinky finger and how to ride a horse like a Mongol. Only then will you be able to withstand the glaring Truth of the Hitman. The Hitman will destroy those not up to the task of making it.

Assemble the ingredients:

1. 12" of Italian bread
2. 1/2 lb of cappicola
3. 1/2 lb of Genoa Hard salami
4. 1/2 lb of 1/4" sliced Spicy Italian sausage
5. 1/2 lb Provolone and Swiss Cheese
5. 2 diced onions
6. 1/2 diced head of lettuce
7. 1 ounce bottle of Tobasco sauce
8. 1/2 jar of hot banana pepper rings
9. 3 tablespoons of Olive Oil
10. 3 tablespoons of horseradish
11. Garlic powder

Now meditate upon them. Be the banana pepper. Listen to the song of the onions. Breath deeply. Wash your hands.

Heat a griddle on the stove and light up the oven to 400*.

Take another deep breath. Add the sausage, oil, and cappicola to the griddle. Stir in half of Tobasco sauce and cook until sausage is slightly brown. Spread out bread in oven now. Add onions and banana peppers, cook until onions reach desired consistency.

The moment the cappicola starts to curl and harden, whip bread from oven and dump the griddle onto it. Squirt rest of Tobasco sauce onto the oily, steaming goodness.

Layer the cheese on top. Layer the salami over the cheese. Layer the lettuce over the salami. Smear the horseradish over the lettuce. Sprinkle as much garlic powder as you dare onto it, pop it back into the oven for 30 seconds, pull it out and close the sandwich.

Now eat of the flesh of the One True Sandwich who was cooked for your hunger. And try to not breathe near people for a couple days.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 03, 2007 21:49 EST | Permalink | comments |
humor, life

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I'm Talking About Murder...

I killed my computer last night, and then resurrected it using little or no Jesus Juice.

I found an interesting direct-installation of Debian Linux, and installed it without a hitch. I had Linux! Then I tried rebooting into Windows- GRUB wouldn't let me, said my System file was missing.

So I tried booting back into Debian. Damn thing wouldn't let me! So I looked at my monitor and fondly recalled the times we've had together. Oh, the memories! I considered running out onto the street and forcing a homeless man to sing Streisand's song, but decided to be more nefarious and vengeful.

I booted up my Windows installation disk, and COLD-BLOODEDLY typed in Format C:. I did it. Like Poe's "Imp of the Perverse," something in every Windows user lusts to enter that deadly command. You know you want to do it.

Now, let me see the consequences of my actions. Did I lose anything important? Nope. All saved elsewhere. Did I lose any functionality? Temporarily, until I restore that glorious open-source software I had. This time, it'll be running on a fresh clean slate. Is the computer still sellable? Even more so, since it's back to a tabula rasa.

There is a lesson here. If something goes wrong with your computer, make sure you have taken the preparations to be able to look it in the face and pull the fucking plug without second thoughts. Call me Kevorkian.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 03, 2007 18:20 EST | Permalink | comments |
geekery

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Scary meme...

Pookleblinky -- [noun]: A hermit living in the big city 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Hat tip: The Moxargon Group

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 02, 2007 10:00 EST | Permalink | comments |
memery

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Banking Hours

Why do banks have the hours they do? Are financial transactions really still that dependent on humans? What on earth prevents me from depositing money at any hour I wish?

We've yet to reach the point where cash transactions seem disreputable, but we're damn close. The first banks were warehouses for physical items of exchange value. Their information processing abilities extended to little more than IOU's and tallies. The Medicis were little more than guards who could remember faces. Humans were necessary because we still hadn't invented computers and the clusterfuck that is a global economy. It is different now: banks process information, not money.

Modern banks are information clearing houses. The bulk of their business is the digital shuttling of information regarding money, not the physical bits of currency themselves. When I say I have X dollars to my name in the bank, I am making absolutely no reference to the physical presence of money. Because of fractional reserves, I'm sure that money has already been lent out. What I do mean, is that the bank possesses some bits of information allocating X dollars to my name. Change them a little and I'm homeless or a millionaire, without a single penny switching hands.

So does it make any sense that an industry so information-heavy is dependent on the limited hours that humans can work? Why must a human sit between the computer at my work and the computer at the bank, when her job is basically to slow down the process with her fleshy fingers and need for coffee breaks? For G-d's sake, if the internet can be 24/7, why not a bank? I'm serious. How many terabytes of information do you think are constantly shuttling around online, versus the information contained in financial transactions? Am I to believe that unlike the vast oceans of information incessantly streaming around the world, the information processing of banks cannot be undertaken for more than 8 hours a day and on weekends?

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 02, 2007 03:38 EST | Permalink | comments (1) |
hateblogging, boredomblogging

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Two Morning Links

Anti-idiotarian aliens who write wonderful posts. Go figure.

The Misadventures of Hello Cthulhu. So cute and inexpressibly terrifying you'll run out and buy a Muskatonic U dollhouse.

Posted by: Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar at June 01, 2007 03:23 EST | Permalink | comments |

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