discarded lies: friday, july 21, 2017 9:40 am zst
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zorkmidden
Paroxysms and Thrillhammers
Quiz time, ladies and gentlemen!

1) Name an appliance that relaxes furrowed foreheads, cures sore throats, restores plumpness to bony arms and also doubles as a nail-buffer kit, hair brush, or backscratcher.

2) What was the fifth electrical appliance to be introduced into the home, after the sewing machine and long before the electric iron?

3) Fill in the blanks: By 1917, there were more _______ than _______ in American homes.

4) The title "The Nun's Story" brings to mind _________.

5) Name an appliance popularized by a Republican administration.

For extra credit, leave a comment with your answers before you click on the link. (NSFW)
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guest author: levi from queens
Curses upon my parents
I have often wished to redesign my body – limited as it is to the genetic information in the 48 chromosomes which my parents unwisely bequeathed to me.

Here are some improvements:

Photosynthetic hair is a no-brainer. You can get your food from the air. Clearly the head, arm, and leg hair need to turn green. I am less certain about other hair. I gave great thought as to whether or not photosynthetic skin might be a good idea, but the Incredible Hulk convinced me otherwise from simply aesthetic concerns.

A ten foot long prehensile tail is a clear necessity. This will mean that either my pants will have to be cut fuller in the rear or that there will have to be a tail hole. The tail hole seems more comfortable. Prehensile means hand-like – so that my tail will give me something like a third hand as well as far greater ability to hang and swing from trees or powerlines.

A seventeen foot long prehensile tongue would obviously be far preferable to my current two inch stub tongue. Imagine you are sitting in McDonald’s eating Chicken McNuggets (yuck) and somebody comes in with a Big Mac and sits down across the restaurant. You just send out your prehensile tongue and make that Big Mac yours. Or alternatively, you are sitting in a really boring college class where the professor is droning on and on about the idiocy of GWB and you have a friend who chose intelligently to wear a skirt sitting two rows in front of you.

I gave extended thought to acquiring the two-headed penis of the kangaroo whose two penis-heads head off to the two separate wombs of the she-kangaroo. I had difficulty imagining that two heads could possibly be more fun than one head; so this modification was rejected.

Lastly, there are wings. I need wings. To soar above the Earth – particularly when the subway has problems conveying me across the East River – also to dispense with elevators. Obviously, my shirts will need to be redesigned to be much more like hospital johnnies. If I could have wings, I would be willing to forego the previous requested improvements.

pretty please God?
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guest author: airforcewife
The House Without a Corkscrew
Hubby and I don't drink. Now, before you ascribe self righteous tee-totaller status to us, please let me finish. It's not that we have anything against people who enjoy alcoholic beverages, it's just that we don't. And we don't care if people drink around us, we just don't usually share.

More than once I've seen crestfallen faces of those we love when confronted with sparkling grape juice at dinner instead of wine. I mean, we got so many beautiful wine glasses as wedding gifts that we had to find something to fill them, right?

But all this had to change. You see, hubby's doctor has been after us with several holistic preventative steps we need to incorporate into our lifestyle in order to counteract some truly unfortunate health genetics that poor hubby inherited. We had to add daily baby aspirin. We had to start a regimen of glucosamine. And the doctor finally bullied us into one glass of wine per night.

This had to be the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done. I mean, who makes an agonizing and conscious decision to drink a glass of wine? My God, I felt like sneaking around disguised so no one would know that in my 32 years of life I'd never bought a bottle of wine before!

I felt like the 65 year old virgin who finally gets married.

And worse, I had no idea where to start. How much money should I spend? What should I try? I already knew that most of the wine I had sampled at various times in the past had not met with my taste approval (although this was more likely due to the fact that my mother was inordinately fond of wine-in-a-box). Most of the people I know would have been able to give me the information I needed, but asking them was totally out of the question. There would have been one of two reactions from them: (1) a blank stare, followed by a, "You're kidding, right?", or (2) a burst of laughter followed by information designed to play out as a horrible practical joke ending with hubby and I occuping both bathrooms and children pounding on locked doors screaming, "I have to go NOW! NOW!"

So I did what any self respecting 32 year old wine virgin would do... I emailed Bloggie's resident gourmand, Stormi. I opened my soul and exposed my humiliating secret and the information that hubby and I were ready to take steps to remedy the situation. I told her the qualifying information - I hate "winey aftertaste" and the stinging mouth syndrome. I've had a problem with wine burning my stomach. And, above all, I get drunk on vapors. For me, one glass of wine is pushing the limits of sobriety.

Just for the record, I've printed out all of Stormi's wine emails. I'm thinking about putting them together in book form for easier perusal.

Hubby and I, armed with two pages of Stormi's advice, set off for the local high end boozery (Stormi recommended that wine virgins go somewhere you could ask for help). In New Jersey, just for the record, high end boozery is highly subjective.

After asking the LiLo clone at the front counter for help and receiving an answer of, "The guy who knows THOSE things won't be in until 4!" we decided to wing it. For the next 45 minutes we perused labels, read the laminated reviews that were attached to the crates the wine was displayed in, and compared. Stormi had given us some great ideas from Portugal and Germany, but hubby really wanted us to buy something from the Israeli aisle. And to make it worse, we'd never heard of any of the wineries.

That, in itself, is totally inexcusable. I come from a major winemaking region in California. You have to TRY in order to keep from absorbing any information! But truly, the only label that looks familiar to me is Ernest and Julio Gallo. Oh, and Riunite - because they used that stupid song in their commercials.

Finally we found two bottles of wine that fit the parameters Stormi had outlined; one a bottle of white infused with strawberry from New York, and the other a "light and fruity" red from Portugal. We were ready.

To enter into the world of alcohol adulthood, hubby and I planned a little mini-party. Our kids were sent to bed early. We spread out a blanket in the bedroom, put on a good movie, and laid out some crackers. With great fanfare, hubby brought in our two prettiest wine glasses and the bottle of red wine.

But it seems we had a slight problem - we didn't own a corkscrew.

We were horrified at ourselves! Who in the world doesn't own a corkscrew? The answer is Air Force Family. We had to buy one. But meanwhile, we had a "first time" ceremony all ready to go, and so we turned to the strawberry white.

I'll admit, I was scared at first. It felt weird. But it wasn't bad. Hubby's glass had more in it than mine, but I did finish. I was a little concerned about technique - what exactly is a "sip"? How many swallows in a glass? And how could I affect that mindless elegance some women exude while they nonchalantly hold their glass? I figured that technique could come later, after further instruction.

As hubby and I finished up our first time, we realized something quite critical - we had no idea how to store wine. I mean, my mother put everything in the fridge. That is, when there were leftovers. Actually, to tell you the truth, I don't ever remember seeing anything in the fridge. I just know my mom would have put it in the fridge.

Apparently, there is a trick to storing wine. We missed that trick. Luckily, the strawberry white was only a nine dollar bottle, because we left it out next to the bed.

So, we're working on it. It's a silly journey, but we'll get there. And today we bought a corkscrew. Tonight, we start on the Portuguese red.
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guest author: packen
Alliance
I was following annie’s thread “Mediterraneans uber alles!” and felt to reminisce.
Israel should aim to form an alliance of all Mediterranean nations.
You know, it wouldn’t be altogether impossible, if only we could keep Africa out of it. This thread reminded me of my own failed attempt to form an alliance with the Arab world, failed not for anything you may have guessed, but because my life has always been wrought with comedy.

I was 19 at the time, right after spending two-and-a-half years in Israel, living in Perugia (Italy) with a couple of renowned Italian language professors. One day they left for a month-long teaching tour of Europe, leaving me behind to take care of pets named Pessy, Passy, Possy and Pussy. In order for me not to lose momentum with my Italian studies in their absence, they arranged for me to take a language course at the University for Foreign Students.

I showed up for my first class taught by what I was warned a fascista, a benign-looking elderly gentleman with a bow-tie. I entered the classroom and quickly assessed the situation–out of about forty students, there were only two females from Sweden, the rest looked African and middle-Eastern. The first thing I had to do was sign a log, indicating my name and nationality. Of course, I could put myself down as Russian had I been prudent, but I was anything but, so I wrote down Israeli.

As soon as I sat down, a beeline formed to check out my credentials and during the recess I was approached by six guys who introduced themselves as a group of friends and informed me that I was the first Israeli they ever met. One of them was from Egypt, one from Lebanon, and the rest from Jordan. To make the long story short, we quickly became fast friends. They were very cosmopolitan, obviously from well-to-do families who could afford to send their kids to Europe to study engineering and medicine, extremely polite and overall fun guys. We used to hang out together during recess and then spend a couple of hours after school at our favorite trattoria drinking espressos and smoking up a storm. We never discussed politics during our short friendship, concentrating instead on what all strangers in a foreign land do–make fun of the locals. We shared a common interest in firearms and always stopped at a real fancy gun shop on the way to trattoria, drooling over the latest display of Renato Gambas ($16,000 a piece). I don’t recall if that struck me as ironic at the time-- remember, the year was 1974.

Anyway, this idyll didn’t last long. About a week or so later, I was approached in class by an 8-foot tall Nigerian. OK, I’m exaggerating a little, but he was definitely over seven feet, and not skinny either. He was very very dark, with a mouth full of huge dazzling-white teeth, so when he grinned you couldn’t help but squint. The first words out of that mouth were: “Hi, I’m so-and-so, I’m here to study medicine and I will be your body guard.” “Huh? Why do I need a body guard?” “There are too many Arabs here and it’s dangerous.” All my protestations that I could take care of myself were met with a smirk. He used to lurk around while we were having our espressos and appear out of the blue once we parted and I was on my way home. I lived in a farm house way out in the countryside, about two-mile walk through the fields and olive groves and he insisted on accompanying me on my way. Poor peasants in the fields used to drop their hoes and stare until we were out of range. He also started dropping amorous hints and creeping me out. I did not know how to shake him.

Meanwhile, his body guarding methods kept escalating. He planted himself next to me in class and every time anyone from the gang as much as came near me during recess, he would immediately appear and start glowering at them. The kids commenced to seethe, I caught a lot of kus this and kus that, the tension was escalating and I had no other choice but to stop coming to class in order to avoid an international conflict.

So there you are. I know it’s kinda anti-climactic, but things often are in real life. Let this be a lesson to you, kids. You want Levantine alliance, do not employ African peacemakers.
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zorkmidden
Holiday feasting
Since tonight is the last night of Chanukah and then Christmas is around the corner, we definitely need to talk about food. First of all, tragic news as Kentucky fears loss of traditional roadkill and veggie stew. Okay, well, it's not really really tragic but it does raise a question: what exactly is roadkill? I was under the impression that roadkill was a dead animal that had been hit by a car. The article describes roadkill as squirrels, rabbit or possum that "backwoodsmen bagged on any given day". What do they mean by bagged? I thought that maybe people hunted squirrels or rabbits (I don't want to think about possums too much) but would they be called roadkill then? And if roadkill means what I think it means, aren't the squirrels and the rabbits pretty flattened? They're not that big to begin with.

These and other questions race through my mind this holiday season. So what special dinners will you be having these days? I think I'll stick with pizza.
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zorkmidden
They're ba-aack!
Who's back? Kosher Eucharist! By the way, I would pay money to see Michael singing show tunes.
So where have we been? For those of us who are new to our, ahem, zany antics, Kosher Eucharist was a short-lived webcomic starring a somewhat reticent Jew and a somewhat hormonally-charged, volatile Catholic, characters that were IN NO WAY based upon myself and Chris, that transmogrified into a blog in which we commented on politics, history, Israel, Judaism, Catholicism, our university (Tulane) and our shared love, Fran Drescher. The last time our loyal readers heard from us, circa midsummer 2005, I was on a summer vacation in Israel and Chris was…I think he was living with his dad in Texas or something, I forget. Now, more than a year later, and in the wake of a major hurricane which wrecked our home city and scattered us to the winds, I’ve permanently moved to Israel and am less than a month away from my supposed induction date into the IDF (which is, objectively, not the best time to be taken by inspiration and restart one’s old blog), and Chris is a month away from graduating from college, after which he will visit Israel for three weeks before moving somewhat indefinitely to New Zealand. Why New Zealand? I’m not entirely sure, but he can explain for himself.

Fortunately for you, we’re bursting with ideas for how to restore Kosher Eucharist to its former glory and beyond. Including, inshallah:

- A regular feature, admittedly somewhat inspired by Nick Hornby’s “Songbook,” in which I will post an MP3 of one of my favorite songs and discuss music, history and my feelings as they relate to the song. That’s right. I’m going to be talking about my feelings. I thought I’d try something new.
- Erratic posts, once I’m drafted, about the fun times I’m sure to have in my capacity as a weapon of war in the arsenal of the Israeli military.
- Chris’ thrilling travelogues from Israel and New Zealand and points inbetween. I’m looking forward to the report on wacky New Zealand pizza chain Hell Pizza.
- What I hope will become a weekly feature with Official Kosher Eucharist Mascot Flannery (the world’s Jewiest Catholic girl), Fridays with Flan, in which Flannery will demonstrate for us relevant and timely words in American Sign Language, such “Jew” and “vagina.”
- Chris’ perennial dissatisfaction with the state of affairs in the Holy See.
- And, as always, our shrill rantings about how fat and unlovely we find Suha Arafat, the Grand Dame of Gay Paris.

I’m so excited I could get off the couch.
Me too!
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guest author: Sean Gleeson
The Early Show
HARRY SMITH: Welcome back to The Early Show, I'm Harry Smith. With us today in our New York studios is U.S. Federal Communications Commission Chairman Kevin Martin. Mr. Martin, welcome.

KEVIN MARTIN: Thank you, Harry, good to be here.

HARRY SMITH: Mr. Martin, the FCC issued a new ruling today on profanity, is that correct?

KEVIN MARTIN: That's right, Harry. The commission decided that profanities can be used on news programs, but not on entertainment programs. We feel that this is a fair compromise that accommodates the freedom of...

HARRY SMITH: Shit.

KEVIN MARTIN: Pardon?

HARRY SMITH: Shit! That's one of the words I can say, right? Shit?

KEVIN MARTIN: Um. Yes, that word, which you said, is one of the profanities which...

HARRY SMITH: Shit! This is cool. Thank you for coming, Mr. Martin. And now, Julie Chen has a story, about some fucking elections. Julie?

JULIE CHEN: Thank you, Harry. The voting is over, but the counting has barely started, and Senate races in three fucking states are too close to call.

HARRY SMITH: Shit. So we won't know which party controls the Senate until...?

JULIE CHEN: It could be weeks or fucking months, Harry.

HARRY SMITH: Shit. Tits.

JULIE CHEN: Assholes.

HARRY SMITH: Fuck. Let's check in with CBS weatherman Dave Price. Dave, what's the national weather picture this morning?

DAVE PRICE: Shitty, Harry. It's fucking raining in Washington, and fucking cold in many parts of the country. Bundle up, or you'll freeze your asses off!

JULIE CHEN: Tits, too. Brrrr. Tits, tits, tits.

HARRY SMITH: Dave will be back with the five-day forecast, after these fucking commercials. Stay with us.
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zorkmidden
Whew! That's a relief
Vampires a Mathematical Impossibility, Scientist Says. So I can take the garlic off the windows?
A researcher has come up with some simple math that sucks the life out of the vampire myth, proving that these highly popular creatures can't exist.

University of Central Florida physics professor Costas Efthimiou's work debunks pseudoscientific ideas, such as vampires and zombies, in an attempt to enhance public literacy. Not only does the public believe in such topics, but the percentages are at dangerously high level, Efthimiou told LiveScience.

Legend has it that vampires feed on human blood and once bitten a person turns into a vampire and starts feasting on the blood of others.

Efthimiou's debunking logic: On Jan 1, 1600, the human population was 536,870,911. If the first vampire came into existence that day and bit one person a month, there would have been two vampires by Feb. 1, 1600. A month later there would have been four, and so on. In just two-and-a-half years the original human population would all have become vampires with nobody left to feed on.

If mortality rates were taken into consideration, the population would disappear much faster. Even an unrealistically high reproduction rate couldn't counteract this effect.
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zorkmidden
The Igs
If a cure for the hiccups doesn't deserve a Nobel prize, what does?
WHEN a young man walked into the accident and emergency department of Univer- sity Hospital in Jacksonville, Tennessee, complaining of hiccups that had lasted three days, Francis Fesmire, who treated him, had little idea he was about to make medical history.

Yesterday, the American doctor’s innovative solution to the problem — an uncomfortable one that you might not wish to try at home — received the honour it deserves, an Ig Nobel Prize for research that “cannot or should not be reproduced”.

After trying a variety of standard hiccup cures, such as pulling the patient’s tongue and making him gag, Dr Fesmire decided on a different approach.

“Digital rectal massage was then attempted using a slow circumferential motion,” he wrote in his seminal case report, published in the Annals of Internal Medicine. “The frequency of hiccups immediately began to slow, with a termination of all hiccups within 30 seconds.”
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zorkmidden
Presidential trivia quiz
Take this fun - and difficult - quiz from Best of the Web Today and see how you do. I know I have no hope at getting any of this right, but I'll enjoy reading your responses. Here's the first question: "What do the following presidents, and only they, have in common?"
"Washington, John Adams, Jackson, Lincoln, Grant, Cleveland, Taft, Harding, Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, Nixon, Reagan, George W. Bush."

Hmm...
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zorkmidden
Tony Potter? Harry Blair?
Current events dwarfed by pop culture...
Three quarters of Americans can correctly identify two of Snow White's seven dwarfs while only a quarter can name two Supreme Court Justices, according to a poll on pop culture released on Monday.

According to the poll by Zogby International, commissioned by the makers of a new online game on pop culture called "Gold Rush," 57 percent of Americans could identify J.K. Rowling's fictional boy wizard as Harry Potter, while only 50 percent could name the British prime minister, Tony Blair.

The pollsters spoke to 1,213 people across the United States. The results had a margin of error of 2.9 percentage points.

Just over 60 percent of respondents were able to name Bart as Homer's son on the television show "The Simpsons," while only 20.5 percent were able to name one of the ancient Greek poet Homer's epic poems, "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey."

Asked what planet Superman was from, 60 percent named the fictional planet Krypton, while only 37 percent knew that Mercury is the planet closest to the sun.

Respondents were far more familiar with the Three Stooges -- Larry, Curly and Moe -- than the three branches of the U.S. government -- judicial, executive and legislative. Seventy-four percent identified the former, 42 percent the latter.

Twice as many people (23 percent) were able to identify the most recent winner of the television talent show "American Idol," Taylor Hicks, as were able to name the Supreme Court Justice confirmed in January 2006, Samuel Alito (11 percent).
You know, naming two out of the seven dwarves in Snow White is not that big a deal. Naming all seven, now that's a good poll question.
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zorkmidden
Trying to off Castro
A popular joke in Cuba tells of Castro being given a present of a Galapagos turtle. Castro declines it after he learns that it is likely to live only 100 years. "That's the problem with pets," he says. "You get attached to them and then they die on you". Fabian Escalante was head of the Cuban secret service and in an upcoming book and documentary he estimates there were 638 attempts to kill Fidel. This one sounds a little familiar:
On one occasion, a former lover was recruited to kill him, according to Peter Moore, producer of the new film. The woman was given poison pills by the CIA, and she hid them in her cold cream jar. But the pills melted and she decided that, all things considered, putting cold cream in Castro's mouth while he slept was a bad idea. According to this woman, Castro had already guessed that she was aiming to kill him and he duly offered her his own pistol. "I can't do it, Fidel," she told him.
packen?!

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zorkmidden
Coochey-cooing Michael Moore
Michael Moore gets lots of Republican hugs. I wonder how he could tell they were Republican hugs, did they carry guns or something?
Some in solidly Republican northern Michigan and elsewhere now believe that they made a "colossal mistake" in initially supporting the war in Iraq, Moore said, and they have let him know it in chance encounters on the streets of Traverse City, a resort town where he has relocated from New York.

Used to traveling with security and encountering a barrage of hostility, Moore said he finds people now more accepting, even to the point Republicans are spontaneously hugging him.

"Look up the definition of liberal. We hug trees. We hug each other. We hug people of the same sex and want to marry each other," Moore said. "It's the other side that we need to get to hold their arms out a little bit and coochey-coo."
I don't know about you but I'd rather coochey-coo a tree than coochey-coo Michael.
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zorkmidden
What would you like on your elastic loaf?
Iranian leader bans usage of foreign words.
Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has ordered government and cultural bodies to use modified Persian words to replace foreign words that have crept into the language, such as "pizzas" which will now be known as "elastic loaves," state media reported Saturday.

The presidential decree, issued earlier this week, orders all governmental agencies, newspapers and publications to use words deemed more appropriate by the official language watchdog, the Farhangestan Zaban e Farsi, or Persian Academy, the Irna official news agency reported.

The academy has introduced more than 2,000 words as alternatives for some of the foreign words that have become commonly used in Iran, mostly from Western languages. The government is less sensitive about Arabic words, because the Quran is written in Arabic.

Among other changes, a "chat" will become a "short talk" and a "cabin" will be renamed a "small room," according to official Web site of the academy.
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zorkmidden
Hands off
So George Bush gave Angela Merkel a neck massage and people are screaming sexual harassment: Bush's Massage-Gate: Rubbing the Chancellor's Neck and Getting an Earful. I doubt that Bush was trying to harass Merkel or that he was trying to grope her, I'm sure he thought of the massage as a friendly gesture because that's how a lot of people think of it.

I don't know how Angela felt about it, from the pictures she looked like she wanted to slap him. I'd want to slap him too. I hate it when family, friends or co-workers try to give me a massage without asking, especially co-workers who think rubbing my shoulders is a friendly thing to do everytime they pass by my desk.

You'd think the cringing look on my face when I see them approaching and the fact that I try to hide my neck between my shoulders and my shoulders behind my ears would be a hint but apparently it's not a very good hint. I actually had to resort to telling them to quit touching me and then put up with hurt looks.

If this happens again, I'm going to throw my hands up in the air like Angela did. Maybe I'll get lucky and accidentally give them a black eye.
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zorkmidden
That eye, that hook...
Abu Hamza is going to be moved to a more isolated jail with fewer Muslim prisoners because he's forming a fan club at Belmarsh where he's currently incarcerated.
EVIL preacher Abu Hamza is to be moved to an isolated jail because prison chiefs fear he is forming a new terror group behind bars. The hook-handed cleric Hamza - serving seven years for whipping up race hate - has become a figurehead for impressionable young Muslims at South London's HMP Belmarsh. So he is to be switched to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight - at least 30 minutes' sea journey from the mainland and with fewer Muslim inmates.

Bosses at Belmarsh believe Hamza, 47, has been stirring up more racial hatred in secret "brain washing" meetings and prayer sessions. And he is thought to be using The Muslim Boys, a hardcore gang of Islamic converts inside the jail with links to Al-Qaida, as henchmen. Dad-of-seven Hamza, who once branded Britain as "a toilet" but was happy to claim £12,000-a-year in benefits, is said to be furious at plans to move him next month and may mount a legal fight.

A Belmarsh source said: "Many of the Muslim inmates, particularly the younger lads, hang on his every word."
HAMZA HOOKED
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zorkmidden
On a coconut island
Shamelessly stolen from the internet:

If you were going to be stranded on a deserted island and could take three items with you in your regular-sized backpack, what would they be? What three items would you take and why?
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zorkmidden
Barry Manilow, Secret Weapon
Australians upset over loud Manilow music. Having to listen to "Copacabana" is unspeakable torture by the way and I demand that some human rights group somewhere declare it as such.
In a move reminiscent of U.S. efforts to drive former Panama strongman Manuel Noriega from the Vatican Embassy where he took refuge in 1989, the local council in Rockdale, in Sydney's southern suburbs, started a six-month trial of high-volume hits by Manilow and Doris Day to chase away car enthusiasts who were gathering on weekend nights at Cook Park Reserve.

"Barry's our secret weapon," Rockdale Deputy Mayor Bill Saravinovski told The Daily Telegraph newspaper, four weeks after the start of the effort. "It seems to be working."

But some people living near the park are less than enthralled. They say the barrage of "Copacabana," "Could It Be Magic" and "Que Sera Sera," blasting from 9 p.m. to midnight every Friday, Saturday and Sunday is driving them crazy.
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evariste
Discard Amerikkka's Lies: Today Is A Good Day To Sniff Glue
In which we blow your mind...with SCIENCE!

Thanks to V the K, and pursuant to winning the contest declared here to top the masterful DU scientific debunking of the neo-con Jewish theory that airplanes (hah! airplanes!) brought down the World Trade Center, we have been inspired, yes, inspired!, and we have been hard at work bringing you exciting new scientific theories that prove that BUSH LIED! I have scientifically debunked the silly notion that the Titanic was sunk by an iceberg, and RIP Ford has debunked the myth that Flight 77 hit the Pentagon. What you are about to see will shock you to your very core...this is as close to sitting in an internet electric chair as you're ever likely to get, folks! So put on your seat belts, swallow your tongues, and get ready to have your minds blown. Up. Blown up. Democratic Underground style.

First, RIP Ford's experiment-then mine. I'll hand the microphone over to RIP Ford:

This is RIP Ford speaking: Time was of the essence. My window of opportunity would be small, the risk high and the peril most perilous. I hopped in the debunk-mobile and made my way to the remains of the local defunct consumerist sleaze pit that I successfully lobbied to shut down two years ago. I was called upon by my conscience to conclusively prove or disprove the events at the Pentagon that eventfully September morning.


[Figure 1]
Supplies for this experiment, all purchased at my local Fair Trade™ market that fosters an equitable and sustainable global system of production and trade.


[Figure 2]
Tricky Zionist string caused some minor difficulties, but after about a half hour, I was able to proceed with the experiment.


[Figure 3]
Unable to procure an exact model of the aircraft in question, I went with the next best thing offered up by my local Guilt Free establishment. I feel that the trade off in accuracy is more than made up by my contribution to some poor Ecuadorian craftsman who almost surely needed the money more than that Chinaman's offering at Walmart.


[Figure 4]
This experiment had more than it's share of hazards, but I felt it was my duty as an Dissenting American Patriot to ignore the peril to my own well being to get the truth out to you the public citizen. Here, I found my fingers super glued together.


[Figure 5]
Time for a healthy recharge.


[Figure 6]
The final product, all set to go on it's maiden voyage. I christened her the Truth Seeker, but then realized that personifying the craft in the female tense was sexist and on top of that, I'm a wiccan so I shouldn't be associated with a "christening" anyway. What's the Wicca equivalent? I don't think we have one. I should ask around at the next meet and greet.


[Figure 7]
I suspected all along that I might be followed, but I never believed that they would catch on to my plot so early. After a long diatribe about the rights of the people over the rights of individuals, she snickered at me and offered to call the cops to sort the mess out. Not willing to give up on the chance to stick it to the man and expose the truth to all, I gave in and was escorted of their precious "private property". I got mine in the end as I gave her the bird and she didn't see me.


[Figure 8(a)]
I lost the rent a pig when I got on the Interstate. Ha! Take that Nazi. Just to be sure that I wasn't being followed in the air I made a couple of laps around the airport and it's restricted airspace to make sure they couldn't follow me to my secondary test site. But first, I had a meeting with my cohort on this project, my super seekrit scientist at her place of primary employment.


[Figure 8(b)]
For the purposes of this experiment, I'll call her "Ginger". She's my partner in crime in the quest for TRUTH. We have this special bond that no one around us knows about, and a coded language that only we share. Some day we'll be together 4-ever! I slipped her some bus and lunch money and headed out the door. Refreshed and with a renewed vigor for my quest.


[Figure 9]
The final set up, with modifications that include a used soda can pop top as a guide for the plane. Reduce Reuse Recycle!


[Figure 10]


[Figure 11]
The path of trajectory for the alleged Pentagon Attack on September 11th. Here, I used a cinder block I found in the park covered with tissue paper to properly represent the walls of the building on the morning of the attack. Pretty freakin' brilliant if you ask me.


[Figure 12]
A final shot before test to prove the set up was not doctored after my encounter with the 'authorities". Ready to rumble.

[Video 1] The video documenting the set up.

[Video 2] Experiment 1. The plane went tits up on take off, but much information was learned and a new plan of attack was needed. I call "Gingers" office for consultation, but her good friend Dave the Door Guy answered and told me to quit calling. That's our secret code for it's not safe to talk because the Men in Black have her under surveillance. They always have her under surveillance, she's that dangerous to them. I was on my own.


[Figure 13]


[Figure 14]
Documenting the aftermath and structural failure of the vertical support spar and minor, superficial burns on the lower staggered wing.


[Figure 15]
I decided to move the thrust forward to the more significantly rigid fuselage. Some one stole my super glue, I think it was the Feds, so I need to hurry.


[Figure 16]
Reinforced the connection of the spars to the upper and lower wings. I was assured this added rigidity would not affect the experiment by a delightful homeless man, we'll call him "Barney", who took an interest in the experiment.


[Figure 17]
Prepared for the second Flight

[Video 3] Experiment 3


[Figure 18]
The velocity required sheared off the wings without getting anywhere near the "Pentagon".

I think I've conclusively proven that no airplane constructed with today's materials could withstand the velocity required to pull off such an extreme maneuver. Occam's Razor dictates that since the experiment failed the only possible conclusion that can be accepted is not of hijackers hell bent on our destruction train for months, take over a plane and crash it like they did in New York, but that the government of ChimpyMcZionBushHilter scrambled in the 45 minute window to formulate a plan to launch a cruise missile into the building. I doubt the conclusive proof will change the minds of all the sheeple, but if I reach just one person than all the risk and perilous peril was worth it.

The Truth is Out There Folks.

Peace.

-All right, this is evariste again. Here's my experiment to prove that the Titanic was not sunk by an iceberg, in 7 pages. I set out to prove something very simple, but what I discovered shocked even me! A world-changing conspiracy of the first order. Proceed at your own caution, for here there be some terrifying man-eating tygers of Jewish conspiracies...


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 1


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 2


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 3


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 4


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 5


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 6


Who Sank The Titanic? Who? Page 7


I hope you can sleep at night after these revelations.
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evariste
Discard Amerikkka's Lies
V the K's post in the hippo yesterday (Democratic Underground - Can a jet fuel/hydrocarbon fire collapse a steel structure? An experiment.) got my noodle twitching. This is really unprecedented, my friends. We are on the cusp of a new era, where imperialist lies can be debunked by any tenacious housefrau with chubby fingers, hairy calves, an internet connection and some scien-tastic gumshoe work. So let's take this New Direction for America, and stick it to the Republicans, like some giant tae po dong of popular justice!

Ideas and photos in this thread, please. The most inspired debunking wins the Tinfoil Crown of Glory* and runners-up win an autographed, framed copy of Amiri Baraka's masterwork, SOMEBODY BLEW UP AMERICA**. Go out there and debunk Amerikkka's lies, and may the least differently-advantaged person win!

By the way, I am going to win this thing. The sinking of the Titanic is mine so don't even touch it. Photos coming this afternoon, when I prove once and for all, with SCIENCE, that an iceberg did not sink the Titanic.

* You will have to make this yourself. Instructions: wrap a Burger King cardboard crown in tinfoil, then put it on your head.
** You will have to print this out yourself from the internet and sign it "Amiri Baraka", and then have it framed.
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zorkmidden
Please don't step on the food
Scorpions, worms and ants on the menu at NY club. Not that I can afford to eat there on my measly FCS trainee salary. Look at what they charge for a tarantula!
Rurka prepared two large black tarantulas for the cocktail party but he said at the annual dinner he serves hundreds of them, each costing $175. They have to be stored individually and kept alive until just before cooking to stay fresh.

"They kill each other if they're kept together," he said, adding that occasionally the hairs on the legs can cause an allergic reaction, just as some people are allergic to bees.

He neutralizes the stingers of the scorpions with heat to avoid adverse reactions.

"When you look at a scorpion your salivary glands dry up. It's not like looking at a pizza," said Cal Dennison, winemaker for Redwood Creek, who was offering advice on wine pairings.

He recommended a pinot grigio or something similar "to get your salivary glands working."
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ev and zorkie
Ferkakta By Night
You're a lowly Ferkakta Central Services trainee, you're working the graveyard shift, you're blogging as hard as you can, yet you still can't satisfy the big boss. But a story is breaking and if you can be the intrepid blogger who gets the scoop, who knows what's in store for you? Maybe you even get to keep your job!

Don't forget your lunch bag and your map. Your map takes you places and your lunch bag holds your inventory items since you can't afford a briefcase on your measly FCS trainee salary. Where is your map, you say? I don't know! Did you maybe throw it away, accidentally? You better check.

Please remember to use invisotext for any exchanges of hints, clues or spoilers in the comments here. You don't want to know the terrible fate that awaits you if you don't use invisotext. If you need a detailed game walkthrough, email me and I'll send you one.

And now go play at zorkmidden.com. Pixelatrix Games. Take your time, look everywhere, and enjoy.

Disclaimer:
Ferkakta Central Services is not responsible for any injuries, concussions, heart-attacks, food-poisonings, or any other bad things that may happen to you in this game. Play at your own risk.
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zorkmidden
The Meteorological Wars
Romania probes 'foreign plot' to worsen its weather:
The Romanian senate has opened an inquiry into "indications" that floods that have battered the country were the result of a "metereological war waged by a foreign power," a senator said.
For a moment there I was worried the senator was reading bloggie and saw our nice brand new ZionistIlluminatiShriner Weather Control Machine, but I'm relieved to see he's blaming the Russians instead.
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zorkmidden
My Bad Boss
Working America is inviting workers to share stories about their worst bosses in "My Bad Boss Contest". After reading about "Graphics Girl" below, I think there should also be a "spineless employee" contest. Like I would ever work 90 hours a week without getting paid overtime? Hah! Oh wait...
Voting for the best worst-boss stories will be done by Web readers over the next six weeks. Each week's top vote-getter will be eligible to compete for the grand prize, a seven-night vacation getaway and $1000 for a round trip air fare, to be announced by August 16

Leading vote-getters as of Monday were:

-- "Russ," whose table-thumping boss at a small Maryland company nixed bonuses, cut overtime and ordered managers to "instill fear" in workers to boost productivity, all because a competing company's owner had a more expensive car, and

-- "Graphics Girl," who left her Pennsylvania media company, and was publicly berated for doing so, after 10 years, including the last five where she worked 50 to 80 hours a week without overtime pay and often without seeing her children. "I missed birthdays and health and years of seasons changing since my office was in a basement with no windows, all for nothing," she wrote.
For once, a bad boss could be a good thing.
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zorkmidden
To the death, for Fluff
Fluffernutter Wars! Fluffernutter sandwich angers Mass. senator
Sen. Jarrett Barrios was outraged that his son Nathaniel, a third-grader, was given a Fluffernutter sandwich at the King Open School in Cambridge. He said he plans to file legislation that would ban schools from offering the local delicacy more than once a week as the main meal of the day. The Democrat said that his amendment to a bill on junk food in schools may seem "a little silly" — but that school nutrition is serious.

His proposal seemed anything but silly to Rep. Kathi-Anne Reinstein, a Democrat whose district in Revere is near the company that has produced the marshmallow concoction for more than 80 years, Durkee-Mower Inc. She responded with a proposal to designate the Fluffernutter the "official sandwich of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

"I'm going to fight to the death for Fluff," Reinstein said.
Bloggie stands behind you all the way, Ms. Reinstein. Don't mess with our Fluffernutters, infidels!
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