I like to

Tell you about something.


Look, as much as I find myself Linguistically, stylisically, sonically, and culturally...

A FORCE TO BE DEALT WITH!

I try my best not to harp shit. I mean, I don't. You've read (and clicked over) to things that I hope make you more aware of the kind of things that are happening -that make up the world. Some of it's fun,
and some of it's loopy in the "I can't believe you fucked my Granddad!" kind of way.

Honest, If I linked to everything I really wanted to, you woudn't get anything done. And, I have that much time on my hands.

But, since you're still reading, I'm dropping this on you. Lali Puna IS the coolest band you've never heard of. And, you'd feel like you were the cool kid in the class if you knew about them before anyone else.

And you should hear them.

Did you guys catch this?

Considering that's like-umm, ice-age, I sorta wonder what the thought process was during it's creation. Like, the tribe's just back from killing a mastadon, and there's about three weeks worth of meat lying around, and Thog sees Tark whacking away at a rock with another rock.
"Whatcha doin?" Thog asks.
"Carving a rock to look like my cock!" Tark replies.
"Why?"
"To hit Jane over the head with!"
"Oh."

sorry, I thought it was so good it was worth repeating.

Seasons Greetings!

Thursday looks across the dark bar table full of empty bottles and glasses at Wednesday. The hunchback squatted in the booth, a misshapen silhouette.
"Yaknow," Thursday started talking, just for something to do. "When I was younger, rock-stars seemed like, bigger, yaknow."
"Whaddaya mean?" Wednesday asked, confused.
"I don't know...like, if Zepplin were to come up against Linkin Park - "
Wednesday interrupts, "But that's like apples and oranges!"
"Sure, but stature wise..." Thursday is interrupted by the dramatic entrance of Friday - throwing himself into the booth with half a jump-half collapse. He wears a white t-shirt that reads "I don't drink every day."
"Jeeezus!" He says laying on the booth with his legs dangling on the floor, a danger to cocktail waitresses and bar patrons. He is of course, very rock-star.
"Hard time at the office?" Wednesday asks.
"You said it." Friday replies - his head below the level of the table. "Where's Tues and Monday?"
"Getting boxes for their diorama." Says Thursday.
"Damn, really?" Friday's voice rises up. "What are you guys doing?"

Before Wednesday catches Thursday's vigorous headshake, he blurts out, "We were just talking about rock-stars."
"Really?" Friday pulls his face up to the level of the table, and looks back and forth between the two.
"Yeah." Thursday says.
"I was thinking something along those lines too." Friday says. "You know it's Tsunami's birthday tomorrow?"
"NO SHIT!" They both exclaim.
"What are you going to get him?" Thursday inquires.
"I was thinking of giving him this shirt off my back."
"I think he'd like that." Says Wednesday, knocking back a big whiskey sour.

****
(and now a few words from the author)

I would! Alot! There's bound to be some uplifing/gutter-dwelling/stupid/euphoric/and general loopy moments in the next few days, so please excuse any light posting from the West Coast Branch of Fjord.

We are, of course, only 450 hits away from 10,000 - so if you really want to get me something nice, just read this last post, or anything from our vastly amusing archives 3 or 4 hundred times, and I'll be really pleased.

Happy Friday!

Since I'm still on my link-fest...

I'd like you to take a look at Giornale Nuovo which has wormed its way into a site I visit regularly. It's kind of an "art history" page, with tons of great images (all very old) by artists you've never heard of, but completely worth looking at.

Continuing our educational series on Prehistoric Dildos

A sculpted and polished phallus found in a German cave is among the earliest representations of male sexuality ever uncovered, researchers say.

It's 28,000 years old, 20 cm long and 3 cm wide.

Considering that's like-umm, ice-age, I sorta wonder what the thought process was during it's creation. Like, the tribe's just back from killing a mastadon, and there's about three weeks worth of meat lying around, and Thog sees Tark whacking away at a rock with another rock.
"Whatcha doin?" Thog asks.
"Carving a rock to look like my cock!" Tark replies.
"Why?"
"To hit Jane over the head with!"
"Oh."

It's been a while since I kept you up-to-date

On my nagging (and hopefully endearing) robot fixation.

Japanese develop 'female' android

and it looks pretty damn real.

Professor Ishiguro believes that it may prove possible to build an android that could pass for a human, if only for a brief period.
"An android could get away with it for a short time, 5-10 seconds. However, if we carefully select the situation, we could extend that, to perhaps 10 minutes," he said.

I Think This Is a New Record!

Yessiree...indeed...this'll make 15 straight posts by yours truly Dario Tsunami! If you've liked anything over the last 14 days, it's thanks to ME! And if you've hated anything over the same span of time, well, it's all MY FJAULT! I accept full responsibility. However, as a reward, I'll treat you to the latest Tsunami short story that emerged in word document form. (cutting and pasting and trying to "formatically edit" doesn't really work in blogger land) I hope you like...


Private Detective Vic Riley’s fist traveled in a short straight line, and slammed into Slim Jimmy’s mouth. It was a tough punch. The knuckle impacted Jimmy’s top incisor and it cracked, but the punch continued it‘s work, and knocked the tooth right out of his skull. Roots were ripped out along with it, and inside his jaw, nerves fired electric lightning bolts into the back of his head. Blood pooled and spilled out of the hole, over his lips and mouth. The crowd in the bar made a variety of sounds, so that all at once they sounded like a collective,
“Ooooh.”
Slim Jimmy shook his head, then felt around in his mouth with his tongue. His tongue fished out the tooth, lodged in the back by his molars, and brought it to the front of his mouth, where he spit it out - and under a barstool. He smiled a big grin with a black and bloody hole in it. Slim Jimmy was sort of a misplaced moniker, since he weighed in at 326. And while he wasn’t ripped, few large men needed to be, to be strong. Anyways, his job as a bouncer at the “Nextdoor Pub,” (which coincidentally happened to be right next door to Mortimers - the bar where the fight was happening) made him all the more ready for the rough stuff. It also made the patrons that much more interested in what was going to be the outcome.
“Get outta’ my way,” Vic said, “Or it’s gonna’ get worse. I don‘t have time to play”
Slim Jimmy continued grinning as blood ran down his chin and made small splotches on his white wrestling shoes, and the floor. Then he rushed forward in a roar, arms outstretched and head down. Vic tried to get an uppercut under his jaw, but it bounced harmlessly off Jimmy’s cheek. Then the mountain hit him.
He was lifted off his feet and carried through the air, caught between Jimmy’s arms and shoulders. He stopped when his back slammed into the jukebox. Things popped and ripped through his back. Things that for good health and posture, shouldn’t be popping and ripping. Vic slumped to the floor as Jimmy backed off, glass from the jukebox fell over his coat. He didn’t have enough awareness to know what sound the crowd was making.
Jimmy stepped back, and noticed next to him a wooden table not yet cleared, and full of empty bottles. He picked them up and fired them rapidly at his opponent. One clocked Vic in the temple, another caught square in his sternum. Two shattered on the jukebox. Vic gave himself a grim smile as he crawled towards Jimmy through the glass. Along the way he picked up the top of a broken beer bottle. He knew Slim was just playing, and the rest wouldn’t be too hard.
He reached his feet, and leapt forward towards Jimmy’s legs. All the while Jimmy was throwing what seemed like a never-ending supply of beer bottles at him. Two struck hard, like clubs on his back, knocking him down on his hands and knees. He reached around the wrestling shoes as a high-ball glass shattered against his head. At least he was out of heavy ammo for the moment. Then he dug the broken bottle deep into the Achilles-tendon of Slim Jimmy’s left leg, and turned it.
Slim Jimmy went down like a zebra with a leopard on his back. Blood covered the white wrestling shoes and Vic’s hands. Jimmy looked up with pure shock, not hate.
“Jeezus Vic, whythafuck didja do that?”
“Jimmy,” Vic disentangled himself from the huge man, “I told you I didn’t have time to play!”

Since I've got more than my fair share

of things to do this happy hunch-back day, I give you this link.

Viva Defamer!

Where we at?

Hmmm...?

No matter what you've faced in the last couple of days - vaccination, vasectomy, vengeance, vermin, vendors, vacation, voodoo, vortexes, vulgarity, voyages, Vermont. (Man, there are a ton of great words that start with "V!" huh?) We can all kick back our heels a little bit and bask in the glory of "The Short Week!"

Let's face it, there's only three more days left to endure, then were back to "Square Party!" And that makes it, a short week.

I'm not real familiar with the boardgame called "Life." But if it doesn't have a square devoted to "party" then I don't want to ever become more familiar with it. I know Monopoly don't have a "party" square, you just get to payday, and thank your lucky stars you didn't end up on Baltic Ave, what with it's overpriced hotel (watery drinks...nothin' like my joint over at Boardwalk- you should check it out.) and all. And Chess? Fucking nothing like a party there! Battleship? C'mon! Mastermind? Gimme a Gjoddamn break.

What we have here is a failure to translate the glory of liquor and drug-addled socializing/fun with any sort of representation in a board-game. However, if you were playing "Fjord - the boardgame" you'd nearly be to the square of ultimate reward (or everlasting guilt and shame, depending on exactly how the dice fell. Either way, it'll be fun on your way to getting there.)

Thanks for playing -
AND TJHERE'S JUST THREE MORE SQUARES!

To Start Off The Week

I'll field a random question from the mailbag.

What do you do for daily inspriation for writing your many posts at Fjord?

Great question!

My answer:
Nothing. Sure I watch a lot of teevee, and occasionally I pass the time reading historical books about animal husbandry, bronze age metalurgy, and the evolution of women's hats, but apart from that, nothing!

Hope that helps. Well, I'm off! My ass's got an appointment with the couch, and I'm already late.

Tsunami.

Speaking of hot

Here's a pretty slick looking site

the music's pretty great too. I might just listen to it all day.

I found it on the always slick Cool Hunting which, if isn't on your favorites list, add it.

Since it's so hot...

I'll take the time to post about something cool. (You ladies might especially like this one)

Alberto Tomba is an Italian gent, who made is mark in Olympic skiing. Here's his results for the 1998 and 1992 Winter Games (and some of his other accomplishments)

Now, I'd like to say that after winning the gold medal for the Giant Slalom in the 1992 games, he went out that night on the town. (actually, I think it was '92-that's a long time ago...) and unfortunately after looking through most of the google images I was unable to find a still shot of that evening) But my god, he made a mockery of taste and style. Like, (if you were a guy) even if you were dandied out and made up by a crack team of Hollywood stylists, and then, wearing an $8,000 dollar tux...you would'a felt like a chump standing next to him. He wore black.

A pair of black pants, a dark black sweater, and a long black (and extremely well tailored) wool overcoat. And hanging from around his neck, on it's white and blue ribbon was his Olympic Gold Medal. It stood out like, well, as only an Olympic Gold Medal can stand out on black. He was not only oozing "I'm the best in the world and I have the medal to prove it," The guy was busy ooozing suave.

Anyways, about three or four years later, I was cruising around the BBC website (and honestly I can't find the story, BBC's search engine only goes back to '97, and TIME magazine, who did have the story, was telling me it's premium content, and I'll have to pay fer it...so we'll go with my memory here)

I find out that Tomba is an honorary SHERIFF or Constable or whatever kind of law enforcement they have in small Italian villages that he inhabits. However, I find this out as he's stuck in a horrible traffic jam in the alps, and he pulls out one of those "stick-on sirens" that are so popular in 70's and early 80's cop shows, and just drives past it all in his Maserati! Of course someone notices it's THE MOST FAMOUS ATHLETE FROM ITALY driving past, and he gets busted. Still, even that, you have to admit, is pretty cool.

So wherever you are tonight Mr. Tomba, keep up the good work!

Friday Nite Heat Blogging!

"It's hotter than a witches' teat strapped into a bone corset, under a blouse, under a petticoat, under a cloak as she stirs a boiling hot cauldron hanging above an open flame during a heatwave." Says Friday, dipping a rag into a bucket full of luke-warm water, squeezing it out, and wiping it across his forehead. The water drips down onto his dirty tank-top shirt, making small pools on the webbing of the aluminum folding chair he sits on. "And what the hell's the deal with THAT INFERNAL BUZZING!"

A small man with glasses and hair that may have been blond, but is now pasted down with sweat looks up from his seat on the floor. "That's the fans, m'lord."

Friday leans back and puts the damp cloth over his head. "I haven't got the will to move...once again laid low by a woman." He mumbles.

CUT TO:
INT. UNIVERSITY LECTURE HALL - DAY
PROFESSOR BARNHARM STANDS WITH AN OLD BOOK IN FRONT OF A SMALL CLASS. HIS GLASSES, GREY HAIR AND GOATEE SUGGEST YEARS OF WISDOM.

"So. What do we think this means?" He asks. The class, by this time in the semester, is too smart to go off half-cocked. Nobody suggests anything.

"Well," He begins afresh, what does Friday mean by, "Once again laid low by a woman?"

A chunky woman's-study major rises to the challenge. "Because he's afraid to acknowledge his male power has no effect on the force of nature." She finishes the sentence strongly, but tinged with hope...nearly a question.

Barnharm pauses for a moment, as the spunky woman will need a touch of finesse. "Since we've all, at this point accepted, that there are traits, either masculine of feminine attatched to all natural occurrences...I think it may be pertinent to bring up last month's lecture on Old Man Winter."

The class has a shared and baffled look.

"From your look, I take it nobody's read the assignment." numbers heads nodd. Barnharm has been in this spot before. He's not so much angered as disenchanted. He finds his place in the book and begins to read.

Summer stood in the corner. Her bronzed skin highlited by a perfectly white bikini, thru which her nipples peeked out. She stood on stripper-heels, and she ran a hand up, to put back a stray lock of hair that had come loose from her pony-tail. "Why Friday," She spoke in a sultry voice, "don't you like it hot?"

Friday's servant, with the pasted down hair and a sweat-soaked shirt looks over and exclaims, "Gjod she's so...HOT!" and promptly vanishes in a puff of vaporized smoke. Summer walks smoothly on long legs, towards the immobilized Friday. Then begins the beginnings of a lapdance over the folding chair. Friday merely puts the rag back in the bucket, and dampens his head again.

"Woman, didn't anyone tell you there was such a thing as too hot?"

Barnharm looks up from his book. The words written therein have had a strange effect in the climate controlled classroom. Back rows were already without clothes, genitals exposed and being used. And the front (closest to the authority figure, him,) were past making out, and had moved on to heavy groping, soon the floor would be a massed orgy. He's seen the same thing in the exact same lecture too many times to be surprised or astonished anymore.

He gathered up his papers and other books, and began to walk out. There was a thing as too hot, he thought. At the door he looked back, and realized, this wasn't it. Papers and volumes fell to the floor as he laid eyes on the brunette from the second row. Would it really matter, (he thought) infact, what more could a student hope for in a 3000 level class called "The Effect of Summer On Weekend Literature?" than an orgy? As he groped for a breast, he wondered if he would put any of this on the final.

Happy Friday!

Incase you're looking for some quality reading...

I think you should read this. It's pretty *ahem* durn good.

Happy Moon Day!

That's right MOON DAY!

36 Years ago, humanids traveled through space, and made it to the Moon. In order to properly put this in perspective, let's ask the class where they went today?

Little Timmy puts his hand up.
"Yes Timmy, where'd you go today?"
"I went to the store." Timmy says looking proudly. His little bangs are soooo cute.
"Timmy, the moon is 238,856 thousand miles away! You'd have to go to the store A BILLION TIMES to travel that distance YOU LITTLE FUCK!"
"Anybody else want to share with the class?"
Little Jessica begins to cry. Little bastards just got no sense of distance.

In case your interested in what to do for Moon Day, take a look at this boingboing post it's got some great ideas. (of course they told you Moon Day was yesterday, but I'm running with the BBC as "official")

And now...another installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

Mr. Pigglesworth stood on the poop deck of the H.M.S. Perth fiddling with a sextant. It was one of those warm nights in the equatorial regions of the Atlantic, and Pigglesworth was trying to fix their position, so he might better know when they would arrive in Bermuda. First Officer Simkins appeared out of the dark.
"You know, your friend Gimpson is in the infirmary." He mentioned casually.
"No, I didn't know. Why?"
"He was complaining of a vomitous sensation, boils, weevils, and general discombobulation."
Pigglesworth took the sextant away from his eye.
"Sounds serious."
Simkins put his hands in his pockets, where the right one toyed with the bag of opium he had purchased before they left Liverpool from a sailor just out of the orient. It was much smaller than it's original size.
"Possibly. But the sea sometimes does strange things to men." He spoke casually, because none of this mattered to him. "Why once I actually saw a man gnaw his own hand till he had finger-bone shards in his..."
Pigglesworth, interrupted, concerned about his friend.
"I'd better go see." And he proceeded belowdecks.

Gimpson was in the cabin of an experienced sawbones, wearing a white gown, open in the back. The doctor was listening in various places around Gimpson's chest, when Pigglesworth barged in.
"Do you MIND!?" The grizzled doctor looked murder at Pigglesworth. Pigglesworth meekly shut the door.
"I was worried about my friend." He said, noticing a few boils, the size of marbles on Gimpson's back.
"MY GOD PIGGLESWORTH" Gimpson began to loose control..."I've got the Bird Flu! It's the Bird Flu, isn't it doctor!?" The old sawbones shook his head and made ticking sounds with his teeth.
Pigglesworth took up a hopeful tone. "I'm sure it isn't the Bird Flu Gimspon." Knowing full well, he'd never heard of the Bird Flu.
Gimpson looked back at the doctor. "Is is Mad Cow?"
The doctor continued listening, then took the stethoscope from his ears, and pressed on various spots around Gimpson's torso.
"OH GOD!" Gimpson began again, "Then WHAT?! EBOLA?! Anthrax!? POX?!! MY GOD MAN! DO I HAVE THE POX!?!"
At this outbreak of dangerous sounding words, even Pigglesworth began to worry. His skin crawled, and he scratched at an itch on his arm nervously. What if these things (which he had no idea of until he heard the word pox.) were contagious?

"A slight case of vertigo." The doctor said, putting away his instruments, "Combined with a nasty onslaught of sea-sickness. You'll be right as rain as soon as we make landfall."

Gimpson stood up, his gown flapping crazily with the wild flailings of his arms. "WHAT ABOUT THE BOILS MAN! THE BOILS!"

The doctor leaned against his desk. "From exposure to too much salt. I'll give you an elixir that will clear it all up." He reached into a drawer, and produced a olive-oil sized bottle filled with sea-green liquid. Gimpson grabbed it, and began to drink heartily.
"That's enough for now." The doctor said, "Only a few mouthfulls at a time. It's got to last for a few days yet."
Gimpson took the bottle away, and wiped the oozing liquid from around his mouth with an edge of the gown.

They were all much happier.

P.S.- the Author promises this will be the last elixir reference for at least one week.

Well Kiddo...

9k-hits and counting!
*******************
kickass.
*******

So today, I was going thru some old files, and stumbled upon a company called ELIXIR. I didn't really understand what they did, I think they made paint. But anyways, what's important is I started saying the name a few times (in that way that I do...) and stumbled upon something like this.

A random acquaintance rushes up to you. For purposes of this narrative, we'll call him JimmyJoeBobJeff, and he happens to be one of those co-workers that we all have, the kind that you really barely know, but have maybe had a couple of conversations with on the elevator or while waiting for the copy machine. The kind of guy that would show up in one of your whacky dreams and you'd wake up going, "Why was JimmyJoeBobJeff in my dream?"

JimmyJoeBobJeff looks agitated, excited, all agog, if you will. And he proceeds to pull a bottle about the size of an olive-oil container from his overcoat (it's been raining off and on all day) full of sea-greenish liquid, and says,
"HERE! DRINK THIS ELIXIR!"

I think we all know that Elixirs are powerful, possibly magical stuff, and not to be taken lightly. As far as I'm concerned there are probably three, maybe four people on the planet that I'd agree to accept an elixir from, and then drink it.
(probably 12 more I'd accept an elixir from but it would be doubtful if I'd ever drink it. Leading to the awkward moment when they were in my home and rooting thru my stuff while I was in the can, and have them all mad when I got out, "Why didn't you drink the elixir I gave you?!?!!" They'd shout in an accusing tone.)

Anyways, the idea I've been knocking around is pretty simple. Everyone knows what an elixir is, but it's a word that has gone out of style since (making quotes with fingers) "Modern Medicine" became the vogue. We pretty much call everything drugs now, but with modern usage, the word "drug" is completely impotent as a word. "Elixir" still has, as a word, some strange power.

It's not often I ask something of you (totally HOT and ASTUTE) readers of Fjord...but for the rest of the week try and slip "elixir" into conversation whenever you can. If something interesting happens, let us know.

HOLY JEEBUS!!!

After careful calculation, and proofreading numerical prowess...I've realized somethijng. If we even have a remarkably average day tomorrow (*ahem* from 11:33 pm PST) we'll cross the 9-thousand hit mark!

Granted we'll most likely never again live through the heady months of May, where keywords such as "wookie sex" and "huge cock" will pull such humungus traffic in our direction. But still, we're now about 2-grand worth of hits...over the months we've been operating (umm, if you took the months we've been working this, then multiply by 1000 (pretty simple mathematices really))...and we never could have done it without you! The most physically attractive of all...I mean allllll blog readers! OF ALL TIME! (God you're hot!) (I learned this from a very exclusive on-line poll! An exclusive ON-LINE-POLE!!! the results of which are only available to fellows like Q-Dog and Me...you hot motha' fuckas' you...!)

Thanks for all your help.
Your pals at the West Coast Branch of Fjord.

Tsunami 1,764. Ants, 0

It seems as though the enemies of Fjord have devised another attempt at undermining our fair and balanced publication. This time, they sent a legion of HUGE KILLER ANTS to swarm into my beloved Casa Aloha.

I had seen a few of their scouts leaking into my bathroom a few days earlier, through an open window, but with the use of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles, (a cleaning product heartily endorsed by D. Tsunami - and also (I might add) an effective ant killer) and Resolve carpet cleaner...and some toilet paper, I was able to dispatch them without too much trouble.

However, Friday night was The Toast of the Town's Birthday cele-brashin, and to start off the night, we dined on Wendy's cheesburgers. Saturday, I stayed inside avoiding the unusually harsh and totally unnecessarily bright sun, and did some reading. While engaged in said activity, I helped myself to more than a couple apples. Not wanting to get up from the easy-chair, I noticed the handy Wendy's bag-just begging to become a trash receptacle. I have a hard time saying no to begging. Well, as I was placing another juicy apple-core into the bag, I noticed it was completely swarmed with ants!

I picked up the bag...and ran back and forth through the house like an idiot screaming and wondering what I should do with it. A calm voice spoke to me thru my brain.
"Take it outside to the dumpster."
I thought about what the voice said, and it sounded pretty good. I ran out, opened the dumpster and threw the bag in. As I did, I saw literally a river of ants pouring in and out of the dumpster. "My Gjod," I thought, "they've taken the dumpster too!" They were too numberous to deal with with my bare hands, and who knows what diseases lurk within that dumpster's bacterium. Besides, they were in my home! I ran back inside.

Knowing I first saw them in the bathroom, I dashed there, and sure enough, a huge trail of ants were leaking in and out of a crack onto my white bathroom floor. I proceeded to massacre them. The bubbles dried up, I threw the can away. I grabbed the Resolve. "Not for use on tile or glass" The warning read. I didn't have time for warnings! I mopped up the rest with paper towels. I stood over the carnage and felt triumphant. For the first time in weeks.

Happy Birthday Toast!

Three Scientists Look Over Their Huge Contraption

Lab coats glimmer in hi-beam lights that illuminate the machine. It's the size of a boxcar, and much taller. Huge disks of strange alloy radiate out from mechanisms which vaguely resemble the rings of Saturn. A large clock is mounted at the base, and it ticks seconds away into history.

"Of course," The head scientist speaks, bald spot glowing like a bowling ball under the lights. "We can only use our time-extender device for evil."

"But why?" Asks his colleague, eyes totally invisible behind hornrim-glasses that reflect nothing but white. "If we used it during the weekend..."

"NO!" The head scientist cuts him off. "The people and corporations funding this project are not about to use the time extender to give workers more time off! Now, activate the machine!"

The third scientist moves over to a terminal and punches a few keys. There is a roaring, then hydraulic pistons sound. The huge disks begin to move, sparks fly from the contraption, as if nature itself desires to counteract the effects of the devilish invention! Yet, it powers on. An invisible wave projects forth.

"IT'S WORKING!" Cries the head scientist over the racket. "What's the range?!"
The scientist at the terminal looks at graphs and numbers on the screen. "Eight thousand miles and growing!"

The second scientist looks at his watch, whose second-hand moves at exactly the pace of the clock at the base of the machine. He calls out, "TIME REMAINS CONSTANT!" The huge rings of the machine sweep around like buzz-saws.

The head scientist shouts to the man at the terminal. "What is the ratio of time-delay?!" The man retorts, "In reality, every minute that passes is now equal to 5 minutes!"
"Make the ratio one minute for every hour!"

The second scientist takes his watch away from his face. "We can't in good conscience,"

The head scientist pulls a Mauser automatic from his lab coat, and shoots his colleague three times. He collapses in a pool of blood and brains, his body producing strange gurgles and farts. The man at the terminal complies. Then the door to the room explodes inwards! Friday and a crack team of commandos burst in, dressed in black, like ninjas. The head scientist opens fire, bullets make sparks off the walls and catwalk posts.

Friday and his commandos return fire, their bullets staining the white lab-coats with huge patches of red. Then at a wave, grenades fall around the machine, and explode. A huge sheared off chunk of disk carems off through a wall and into a bathroom, removing the arm of a man on the can, reading a Newsweek magazine. He screams in horror, watching the blood shoot as if from garden hose, out of his shoulder. The machine stops. The man at the terminal bleeds through his mouth over the keyboard which holds his head on the table.

Friday and his men secure the scene. The head scientist still hanging onto life, pulls himself up to rest on a good arm. "But, why? Why would you? You would have been bigger, stronger, more powerful."

Friday crouches down, "Because, only when the workday is done," He reaches out his hand, and sticks a strong index finger into the exit wound of one of the head scientist's many holes. The evil genius cries out in agony, "do people really like me."

Happy Friday

It Seems Like Years and Years Don't It?

It's only beeeeeen 3 days since I put something up fjord you to read, and soooooo much has happened!

It's like, fuck it, it's like dog years on the internet...which according to the calculator (you'd find if you just got your lazy fingers to click the link-jeebus) is nearing the equivalent of 10-full-years of human life we've been knocking stuff out for your reading pleasures here at Fjord!

However, just because there's been a lack of content on this here web-zine, don't mean that behind the scene there isn't a flurry (and literally a flurry...like as in a LOT, don't confuse that with a FURRY-a sexual sub-group that enjoys dressing up in animal and teddy-bear costumes)
Anyhoo, since Q-Dog's done a lot of work on his posts below, I'm not about to bury it with a whole lotta other crap. However, I was doing a little research for a short-story about an elevator/escalator repairman, who happened to be an assassin who killed people with very convincing accidents around his chosen vocations conveyances. In the course of said research, I stumbled upon the elevator & escalator expert.

It's got quite a bit of minutiae about the things that help you get around every day.

Stuff I Dislike (Part 2 of a 2-Parted Posting)

STUFF I DISLIKE:

You -
No, not you. The guy right behind you. No, no. Behind you and to the right a little bit. Yeah, him! In the yellow shirt. Hey, guy, fuck you!

Things that are pre-packaged -
I don't like the implication of that. It makes me feel like the packagers don't think I can handle the packaging myself. Hey, I'm not helpless over here!! Hopeless, sure. But helpless?!?! Get fucked, packagers!

The way the word "morsel" is always trying to be more than a nibble but less than a bite -
You know what, morsel? Get out. We're done.

The way certain guys in yellow shirts just won't listen -
Yeah, that's right, bastard! I still see you lurking back there. Deep in the shadows, long in the night. Didn't I just tell you to fuck off?!?!?!

Consuming only one-fifth of stuff -
Because one-fifth is 20%. And "20" rhymes with "plenty." That just makes sound sense, no? Like, if you are a one-quarter consumer you must be a fat fuck. A one-third consumer?!?!?!? Well, you must not know that gluttony is one of the seven deadlies. The next thing you need to wrap your mouth around is a prayer, Hoss, cuz Gjod WILL fucking kill you! I know, cuz he killed my cousin.....

People who don't comment -
Come on, you guys! Blogging is hard. Comments make blogging easier. Doesn't "easier" sound like more fun?

Well, there you have it fjolks. Another bullshit window into my empty soul. Go ahead and click that "comment" link below and tell me some bullshit about what you don't like. I promise, I'm a tremendous cyber-listener......

Stuff I Like (A 2-Part Fjord Post. Keep Scrolling)

STUFF I LIKE:

Pepperidge Farm -
I remember. They do, too. It's a very symbiotic relationship between pastry and man. I like that.

Looking at stuff -
I don't like stuff looking at me, however. Like this one time, right? I stared at the book of my choice for a SOOPA long while. The fucking thing wouldn't stop looking back so I stared it down, man. Like really stared it down, you know? I'll spare you the deets, but let's just say that by the time it was all said and done the final score was Q-Dog-1, Book O' My Choice- 0. Take that, non-human!

Miraculous occurances -
From the '69 Mets to the fact that after all this time thermoses STILL know to keep cold stuff cold and hot stuff hot (how do they know the difference fjolks?!?! They're fucking thermoses!), life is full of pretty mind-blowing shit. Another miracle instance: Closed captioning......and pre-sliced breads......I mean, WHAT A PLANET, HUH?!?!?!?

Sleeves -
Not the ones on shirts, or the ones that cover albums, but the plastic ones that go over posters. Also, I really like the word "sleeves." Say it with me, Fjordlings......Sleeeeeeeeves.......Heh-heh.....sleeves.....

My favorite color is fudge -
Self explanatory.

30% of rules & 78% of laws -
I like laws more than rules because rules seem so maverick to me. It's as if you can make them up as you go along, you know? Laws need to be reviewed to get passed. That comforts me. Especially when you consider who's doing the reviewing of said laws. That's right, politicians. If you can't trust them, who can you trust, right? (Btw, does anyone know a guarenteed working method to treat thyroid cancer in an 80-year old man?!?!?! Cuz if G-Dubs gets to appoint 2 Supreme Court Justices, I'm officially moving to my own private Fjord where I will be labeled both Unquestioned Lord and Master and the WBC Welterweight Champion of the World....sigh.....fuck it y'all...I might just go ahead and do that anyway.)

And, finally, the last thing I like (well for the purposes of this list anyway)

COMMENTS!!!! -
I KNOW y'all are out there! Lemme hear ya! This shit's getting booooooooooring.........

These are a few of my favorite things. Which reminds me. I also like clothes made from drapes. Now, click on the comments and tell me what you like, you bastards!

Perhaps You've Noticed this Trend

It can be best summarized by this phrase.

"The less you do, the more you want to be appreciated for it."

I suppose the logical action to find out if the above trend is true, would be to do more stuff. Now, I'm not suggesting I believe in the above trend, but perhaps it's worth a look. Of course, being as lazy as I am, I have no intention of applying the science to determine the outcome.

However, I would like it if you were to acknowledge that I brought this fascinating trend to your attention.

deet...deet...deet-deet-deet...FJORDNEWS...deet-deet...

This quick news-like update, is just in!

Turkish shepherds watched in horror as hundreds of their sheep followed each other over a cliff

Ooooh! The little lemmings! Say what you will about the benefits of a herd-based society, but I'll take individual action over...wait a minute, there's more coming in!

More than 400 sheep died in the 15-metre fall - their bodies cushioning the fall of 1,100 others who followed.

So, 11-hundred sheep feel off a roughly 50-foot cliff, and 700 survived! Note to self, cushion 50-foot falls with a few hundred sheep. (in hindsight, the answer seems so obvious)
Well, have a great Sunday.

UPDATE!

I should mention that the lovely Mamma Tsunami is visiting the Casa Aloha tonight...so things might be a little slow from the West Coast Branch for a few days.

I'm not going to mention terror in this 7/7/05 post.

With the sound of 10,000 roaring boars.
With the smell of burnt flesh and 10,000 armpits masked with varying degrees of success.
With the sight of 10,000 ravenous office secretary cows chewing their cud.
It happened again today.
"OH! The humanity! The humanity!"

You all know what I'm talking about - the destruction, the inhumanity, the terror (Gjod, sorry, I said I wasn't going to mention terror in today's post) of, THE LOCAL FOOD COURT!

Yes, the local heard-fattening eat-a-torium with which every American is familiar with. Infact, it might be the best place to observe the American population in general. It's disgusting! If you want an ad for eating something more healthy, just walk to your local food court and watch a well-overweight human strain the legs off a defenseless chair, and then consume a large hamburger, fries and soft-drink. Nrrrrgg! *shudders*

I'm quite likely to indulge myself in a deep-fried treat as anyone...but I'm active, and I have the metabolism to handle an occasional dip into the 850x the normal-recommended daily allowance of fat. However, I still do so in reasonable moderation. It seems as though some folks don't have the good sense to look in the mirror and exclaim "I'm fat as a cow! I should eat better!"

Being such an image-conscious society (as I'm being constantly reminded) don't you think people would catch on? Or are people too busy living their lives through the tabloid "pretty-people" to actually do anything about their own physical well-being? I guess I'm not in the position to say, but I think I'll stop blogging so I can have a smoke in peace.

Greetings Blogsphereionite Fjord Readers!

I have to admit, I'm a little wishy-washy on the whole "summer" thing that's upon us. It's not that I don't love summer - it's great! It's just every summer I get that sinking feeling, that once again, I do not get the summer that I dream of, the summer of my childhood, well...you know what I'm talking about...the summer off.

I'm sure there are various financial wheelings-and dealings I could fandangle, which would enable me to have enough to carry me through a whole summer of doing nothing but my favoritest summertime activities. But sooner or later I'd actually have to go looking for another job. And looking for a job is my least favorite activity. (followed by a close second -looking for a place to live.) Ironic too, if I were not to work, I'd rapidly run out of money to pay for all the fun summertime activities I couldn't do if I had a job in the first place.

Still, in the back of my brain, there is an idea that it could all still work out. Sure the odds might be as slim as winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, but deep down I believe that the summer holds all the keys to making dreams come true. Even if that dream is taking summer off. At least, I want to believe.

Keeping you up to date...

On all the latest scientific crap...

Vampire Graveyards!

and then there's this...
Russian sues Nasa for comet upset

Something Fun

This is strangely addictive...

sort of like a lava lamp. if she gets stuck, just use your curser to help her along.

WELCOME TO JULY

Happy Orgiastic Dionysian Bacchanalia of Patriotism and Nationality Weekend!

Friday's ripped thru town in his convertible packed with girls which might nicely be described as "pin-up worthy." We all knew he was on his way, but somehow seeing him in the flesh shoots electricity into the proceedings. He's wearing shorts and a white T-shirt that has "Commander and Chef" stenciled on it, and before he's made the grill, he's donned an apron that says, "BEER IS THE SHIT!"

People move out of his way, as he takes over the grilling. But off to the side, Lady Liberty catches his eye, and gives him a wink. She, like usual, looks like a goddess. She reclines on a divan in the gazebo, and gives him a couple more flutters from her luxurious eyelashes. Then she pulls the samite away from her legs, and gives him a glimpse. Friday hands the spatula to a bystander and rushes to the nubile Lady Liberty. He throws aside his apron, revealing his, *ahem* hot-dog, which he quickly thrusts into her. Her moans attract the attention of those bar-b-que-ers who haven't already noticed the spectacle. Somehow a beer is now in his hands, and he drinks it sloppily, spilling it over his face, over his chest, and over Lady Liberty - who is too busy being ravaged to mind.

"Goodness," says a woman too properly attired for a bar-b-que, takes a hit off a big blunt, and passes it to a nearby surfer, "An unholy union between Friday and Lady Liberty? What will the inhuman offspring look like?"
The surfer (wearing a ratty shirt that reads, I survived Beach Party '98) says, "Fuckin' Sweet, that's what." And proceeds to bogart the joint.

Happy Friday

Today is Canada Day!!!

At least, according my office calendar, which as we learned, is a lying piece of shit. That said, Happy Canada Day, Fjordlings (unless it's not really Canada Day)!! Get out there and celebrate our peaceful, quiet, dreadfully boring neighbor to the north (unless it's not yet time this calendar year to do so)! I'm not really sure what you do to commemorate something like Canada (lest the time not yet be nigh), but my guess would be to leave the doors of your house unlocked, don't shoot anyBODY (you can shoot anyTHING all you want, just not people) and just sit around sighing, reveling in your government-sponsored health care system, whilst thinking about your Queen. All of this, of course, is under the condition that my "how could you look me in the fucking face and just coldly lie to me like that" calendar is coming correct with me today. Just to double check, was yesterday National Moist Towelette Day?

In other news, if you're an EXTREME patriot like me (Q-Dog), you may or may not be aware that this Monday is July 4th. "Well, Q," you're probably saying, "I'm an EXTREME patriot and I don't see why I should give one half of a shit about July 4th. Enlighten me!" Well, my Patriot to the EXTREME Power friends, July 4th is the American Independance Day. It is the day EXTREME patriots like ourselves have set aside to celebrate the fact that a bunch of white, aristocratic, slave owning males didn't wanna pay their taxes......

Have a guilt-free Monday, fuckers!

(BTW, what do I gotta do to to get out of paying MY taxes?!?!? Revolt? Cuz, frankly, I'm too tired to start a TOTAL revolution. I could start a half assed one, but a half assed revolution just sounds sad to me....)