Ahoy There Mateys - I've Found Another Passage!
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Posted:Mar 1, 2008 5:10 am
Last Updated:Apr 12, 2008 1:14 pm
16379 Views
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Why are pirates obsessed with booty?
‘Cos they love their Aaaarrrrrsss!
That explains the pic. Now on with the story me daarrrlins me deaarrrrrs.
Over the last three years or so driving in and out of London has become increasingly horrific. Red Ken, Grand Dictator of Old London Town (aka Mayor of London), has a hatred for the automobile that borders upon madness and often goes beyond even those bounds. The London Congestion charge has simply become a money generator for his own fiefdom, and he seeks every opportunity possible to screw it out of the motorist. Now individual boroughs are being allowed to set up their own congestion zones, and a motorway skirting the east of London has been deliberately deregulated from motorway status, so traffic passing through from the South of England to the North can also be charged. I wonder if this monopoly over the roads would be subject to anti-trust laws in the States. Larger vehicles, with engine sizes in excess of 3 litres, are to be subject to a £25 ($50) daily charge.
I heard this interview on the radio:
Presenter: So you intend to charge larger vehicles, such as four by fours and people carriers what amounts to a punitive charge.
RK: These selfish and inconsiderate people deserve a much greater charge because they do not care about the planet.
Presenter: But surely we are talking about those people who can afford these large cars. The wealthy people in places like Chelsea have enough money to go out and buy small eco-friendly, low carbon emissions runabouts for city use, which will be elegible for exemption from the congestion charge.
RK: If they do that, then I will remove the exemption.
So, of course, everyone will suffer, especially those who have already bought low emission vehicles in the view that they are being eco-friendly, or to be exempted from charging. There’s a form of punitive socialism at work, with lots of stick and no carrot, as the buses, trains and underground all continue to be expensive, unreliable and unpleasant to travel on.
There’s a stealth campaign as well, it seems. Traffic lights have been deliberately set so the greatest traffic flow does not get the most time to pass through, the amount of street furniture and road markings have increased exponentially, roadworks are placed on parallel roads, so escaping the traffic jam becomes impossible, roads may be dug up over and over again in the same place in rapid succession for each separate utility ‒ gas, water, electric, telecommunications and so on. Transport for London ( TFL ), directly controlled by the mayor, is supposed to be the strategic body ensuring that communications in the city run smoothly. Public transport, particularly south of the River Thames, continues to be sporadic and with no concept of mass transit for anywhere more than five miles from the centre.
As for getting on to a bike …….. well I’ve already written a post about that in Dying to be green, in particular the silence over cycle deaths on London’s streets, that uncannily goes alongside a TFL campaign to promote cycling to work. Nuff said!
It is against this backdrop that on Monday night, on that stretch of deregulated motorway there was a large diesel spillage, which damaged the road surface, so the northbound carriageway into the Blackwall Tunnel under the Thames was sealed off. There are two commonsense solutions to this. One is to create a contraflow in the southbound tunnel and keep the traffic flowing. The other is to close the southbound tunnel to the much smaller volume amount of southbound traffic, redirecting it to other crossings, on the logical basis that the needs of the many take precedence over the needs of the few and using both lanes for the northbound vehicles.
TFL chose neither option. The traffic spillback gridlocked much of Southeast London, and everyone heading into the city from the south and southeast for an entire morning. It took me three and a half hours to get to work ‒ that’s five times how long it used to take a few years ago. Imagine all that carbon idling its way into the atmosphere ….. carbon emissions are calculated on moving vehicles, not static ones, and here was a veritable flood of carbon oozing into the atmosphere over good old London Town.
During the day I kept up with events. Two and a half kilometres of road had to be resurfaced. Expect the Blackwall Tunnel approach to be closed, possibly until noon tomorrow. My confidence in the care and attention of the road system is pretty shattered. I decided to leave my car at work.
How to get home? With all my misgivings about the cost and quality of public transport I was left wondering. If a mode of public transport could compete with me travelling by car I would choose it, but so far there was no contest. Then a friend mentioned the boat ‒ the Thames Clipper. It was a short walk either end, but hey, worth a try.
That evening I went home by riverboat ‒ a high powered modern catamaran. The crew welcomed me aboard. There were comfy seats, newspapers, a coffee bar, and best of all a fare that was no more than a couple of stops on the underground….
And they are not run by Transport for London, but by a private firm.
At long last I found a nice way to travel. The boats hold strictly to the timetable. And the views …….. Canary Wharf, the O2, all the riverside developments, Greenwich, the Thames Barrier ……. Wow!
Wednesday morning I take the boat in to work. “Good morning sir,” as I get on board, and a lady sells me a ticket while I’m travelling, and she’s really friendly and polite. The boat’s less than a quarter full, so I can sit more or less where I fancy. I’ve a half hour simply to read ‒ in this case try out the instructions for my new boy’s toy ……. A GPS for free-flying (sorry, they don’t vibrate!) …….. and find the boat’s doing 30 mph. No traffic jams, stress, putting up with the deteriorating manners drivers seem to be showing these days on the road …….. and those goddam cyclists weaving in and out of my blindside and running lights. The cost is competitive with the petrol costs of my car, and there’s no wear and tear.
Thursday morning I go in by car. The whole grim experience and stress comes back.
Friday morning I find a free parking space for the car a very short walk for the riverboat, so if I’m feeling really grungy at the end of a day I don’t have that mental hurdle, but a short five minute drive. Now this is cool! I like it.
It’s kinda nice being on the river every day, and the short walk at the work end is giving me exercise.
Why hadn’t I done this before? I don’t know. I guess it never appeared on my radar, but necessity is the mother of invention, as they say, and survival on every level is all about a capacity to adapt. This is more than simply changing a mode of transport ‒ it is a change in lifestyle, at least for a certain portion of each day, and I’m feeling pretty good to be alive.
So tell me…..
Do you work away from home?
How do you travel there?
And do you enjoy the journey?
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Add a caption ......... pleeeease!
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Posted:Feb 24, 2008 11:06 pm
Last Updated:Mar 18, 2008 10:37 pm
16503 Views
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Searching for the baboon's arse (as one does from time to time, lol) I came across this pic.
It definitely needs a caption.
Any suggestions?
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Take a look at my tail
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Posted:Feb 22, 2008 7:42 am
Last Updated:Mar 10, 2008 11:44 pm
16711 Views
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I just think that coercive and aggressive driving is just plain rude interpersonal behaviour. I don’t treat other drivers in that way, although I am a fast driver, and I don’t expect other drivers to treat me like that either.
So I thought why not have a large LCD display on the back of the car. It could be speech activated and it could either display a message or a pic to express to other road users.
So it would dispense with the need for those “Drive Carefully ‒ Little Person in back” signs ……… as if I would drive like a lunatic on the driver’s tail if the sign wasn’t there.
I much preferred the “Dead ex-husband in boot” sign I saw in the car park the other day.
For the police’s benefit there would be lots of sensible warning messages.
“I use them all the time, officer.”
Yeah, right!
Actually I’d patent the whole gizmo just to be able to flash a baboon’s arse to the next thoughtless, socially unintelligent idiot who’s going to try to impress his existence upon mine forcibly on the queen’s highways.
Now if I was coming up behind you what message would you be sending? |
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Sex After Death
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Posted:Feb 19, 2008 9:31 am
Last Updated:Mar 3, 2008 3:53 pm
16635 Views
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I hope you haven’t dropped by thinking warm’s gone necro!
"OMG! What has he got For a girlfriend? Do I smell rot?” To which he said “Certainly not! She is so sexy. Makes me laugh! But granted, Yes, she needs a bath! I know her skin tone’s Wan and pale, And she looks, Well, rather frail……"
But for a while now I’ve had a thought experiment which goes something like this….
Shall I pull down the switch Doktor Frankenvarm?
No Igor! Not this time! It’s a thought experiment!
Ah master, you want the whirly black and white spiral hypnotron….
That won’t be necessary Igor.
(Igor shuffles off stage left. His eyes are slightly wobbly in their orbits because he was rather overzealous in starting up the hypnotron. Naughty Igor! Bad hunchback! Go to your tower!)
Sorry, the thought experiment.
There has for time immemorial been a desire for immortality. This is probably linked to the fact that on the whole, and with the riders that you are non-suicidal and haven’t been persuaded by a loony cleric that self-detonation is the best way of bringing about political change since democracy, life is a better deal than death. Certainly a desire for life is seen to be a rational outlook on things and who can be blamed for wanting more? Immortality lies at the end of the road of life enhancement, somewhere out there …….. and probably over the third rainbow on the right.
Right?
So far, so good.
Then there’s the relationship between our nervous system and electricity. Alessandro Volta’s demonstrations with frog’s legs and a battery actually did inspire Mary Shelley to write Frankenstein.
Some say that a row of twelve wired frog’s legs inspired irish dancing…..
“To be sure Patrick, to be sure. I’ve got all these frogs’ legs, but the shops won’t be stocking batteries for another century or so.”
“Never mind, Sean ‒ we’ll do the dancin’ ourselves.”
And so it was Riverdance was born.
In the 1950s electric probes inserted into the brain during surgery under local anaesthetic induced all sorts of basic responses ‒ feeling thirsty, horny, even simple emotions like anger. Our beings were no longer beyond interference from outside. Nowadays deep brain implants are used to control conditions like epilepsy and Parkinson’s Disease, and there are the possible side effects of apathy, hallucinations, compulsive gambling, hypersexuality, cognitive dysfunction, and depression.
Include a microcomputer in the brain and we become part human and part machine.
So it is feasible that as the brain degenerates its functions can be delegated to intelligent machinery until there is just the machinery left supporting our floating consciousness. We could cheat death. We could emulate human emotions and sensations in our new shell, that would have the potential to live indefinitely.
Perhaps with the sophistication of nanotechnology the new undead would be indistinguishable from the biologically living. Perhaps some would end up chatting each other up over a drink or two in a local bar……
Maybe more....
So tell me, if this was the most feasible alternative to the oblivion of death, would you take it?
Or is there, knowing those moments when our star burns brightest, is there something rather special about our mortality? |
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Closer
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Posted:Feb 17, 2008 6:54 pm
Last Updated:Sep 7, 2012 12:55 am
16604 Views
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You can come a little closer My dearest, sweetest friend Since what we have between us Is timeless ‒ without end This is something special I always will be here And even when we’re far apart Your soul seems always near Dear honey reach across the void To let me feel your touch And through that physicality Know that you mean so much So come a little closer My dearest, sweetest friend Since what we have between us Is timeless ‒ without end
© warmandsexy52 2008 |
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Happy Valentine
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Posted:Feb 13, 2008 11:32 pm
Last Updated:Mar 2, 2008 2:01 pm
14490 Views
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Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain Without thy help by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so; I love thee in such sort As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Sonnet 36, William Shakespeare
Happy Valentine's Day xxxxx
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dance!
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Posted:Feb 10, 2008 5:55 pm
Last Updated:Mar 2, 2008 2:01 pm
14552 Views
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does my glance perchance entrance?
or do you cast your eyes askance
to this advance?
is there romance?
come!
let’s dance!
© warmandsexy52 2008 |
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When Darkness Falls
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Posted:Feb 3, 2008 3:09 pm
Last Updated:Mar 2, 2008 1:58 pm
14935 Views
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It was another twilight flight. Everyone else had given up hours ago, but I knew the wind would ease at the end of the afternoon and with one other flyer saw the sun set yet again from the sky. No great height ‒ maybe a couple of hundred feet at most, and using the edge of a wood for the lift. Tree-topping is risky and hitting a tree can do a lot of damage to a human frame, but it’s the only way I can get my boots off the ground, and a touch of risk fine tunes technique in free-flying, as it does in the rest of life.
The sky darkens quickly once the sun has slipped below the horizon. My friend calls up that I’ll be needing landing lights soon and after catching just that last bit of height from the woods I head back and land near the top of the hill ‒ just far enough away from the barbed wire fence to bring my wing down safely. My friend goes, he has commitments and I’m left alone to pack my wing away in the failing light.
The hillside changes character completely in the dark. It’s quite eerie. There’s an old ruin nearby and the English countryside is steeped in myths, legends and things that go bump in the night. By the time I’ve got the whole glider and harness in the rucksack it’s very dark. The darkness accentuates the sounds of the wind rustling through trees and I’m sure on a couple of occasions I can hear that distinctive sound a paraglider makes when its wing folds in flight, and at another moment I think I can hear the soft whistling of lines in the wind. I have that feeling that I might not be alone.
I turn round and look. I’m alone ‒ as far as the light allows me to confirm.
Thankfully it’s only a short walk to the car. Part of me is rationalising all this. The power of the mind. The current psychological theory that our minds “paint in” so much of what we can see, because it is efficient for our brains to do so (computers do much the same) is one I subscribe too - paranoia is just painting in the wrong stuff.
But part of me is spooked. Not comfortable. My medieval counterpart would probably be looking out for hobgoblins, and I don’t feel like mocking him.
I get my gear in the car and - unusually - lock the door. This is crazy. Irrational. But I’m not taking any risks …….. even illusory ones.
I turn the radio on and there’s Kimya Dawson singing “The Tire Swing.” I’ve never heard it before and I’m charmed by its clever mix of irony and simplicity. The lyrics are bittersweet and funny. I smile.
Partly at the song.
But partly at the irony of not being fazed by real danger, but freaked out by something as simple as darkness.
So tell me……
How are you when darkness falls? |
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Waggle that Arse and Show Me Those Antlers
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Posted:Jan 20, 2008 5:37 pm
Last Updated:Feb 3, 2008 2:54 am
14848 Views
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I was first intrigued by Australian English at a very early age. My dad spent quite a while in the desert with Aussies during World War Two and thought pretty highly of them. These were guys who had a terrific sense of camaradie ‒ they’d share their last ciggie, even if there was half a dozen of them ‒ and always so down to earth. He’d picked up a few australianisms himself, that he’d use quite naturally, probably because they’d crept into army slang maybe.
If I was unwell he’d ask, “Are you crook, ?” and folks he didn’t trust were bludgers. Clothes were always clobber. I remember those.
And there was a time, shortly after I was born, when he almost accepted a commission in the Australian Army. Jeez! I could have been an Oz myself!
But life and its obligations got into the way and it never happened.
Then in my early twenties I shared a flat with an Oz couple from Jeelong. They were great fun ‒ so long as you didn’t mind being barred from pubs and parties. Well, London has a pretty infinite supply of pubs and parties, so it didn’t seem to be too much of a problem.
I almost went out there a second time, but again it didn’t seem to be in my script.
Since then I’ve worked with quite a number from down under. Always good people and real fun too. So I guess there’s a personal warmth to Aussies and their ways, and without a single whinge from this pommy bastard.
I guess what Australians have done to English is lighten it up. Add a real touch of humour to everyday speech. It’s that wit that makes an air hostess a lifejacket demonstrator and a small an ankle biter. The very turn of phrase makes every convo ‒ er conversation ‒ a gem.
So I was pretty impressed to see Australian English adapting to today’s life. Here’s a few:
Boomeritis ‒ an injury sustained by baby boomers while they engage with physical pursuits into old age. Hmmmm! Paragliding accidents would come under that category, so I must be a boomerite ‒ someone who’s boomeritis-prone.
Salad dodgers ‒ overweight people.
Slummy mummies - mothers of young who have abandoned all care for their personal appearance, as opposed to yummy mummies.
Floordrobe ‒ when the floor is strewn with clothes, often by slummy mummies.
Tanorexia ‒ an irrational desire to have tanned skin, risking skin cancer or having all the orange stuff come off on your clothes. I don’t know what the obsession with fake tans is called. Probably mock tanorexia.
Manscaping - a grooming procedure in which hair is shaved or trimmed from a man's body, as from the back, legs, chest, genitals, etc.
And my favourite…..
Arse antlers ‒ these are tattoos just above the buttocks, with a central section and curving extensions either side. Quite the fashion, and I’ve got to admit I have rather a penchant for them.
So tell me, if you waggled your arse, would I be seeing those antlers of yours?
And if you haven’t got antlers, are you still horny? |
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Pornocchio
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Posted:Jan 3, 2008 3:26 pm
Last Updated:Jan 26, 2008 9:46 am
15154 Views
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Do you know Pornocchio? I asked She said, Oh, no, no, no! Surely you mean PIN-occhio. And added With the cutest snigger, When he lies His nose gets bigger! No, I said. I did mean Porny. Lying makes this Puppet horny. When he says Things that are wrong, His wooden dick Grows extra long. She questioned me, Quite in mirth, If his penis Grew in girth. Quite so ‒ The bulge Inside his pants The sweetest maiden Could entrance. Oh what wonder! Oh what joy! Porny’s turning To a boy. She said, Quite red. (She is quite coy.) I’ve seen in men Who’ve told me lies Their pantaloons Growing in size, While they lead This girl astray And try to have Their wanton way. At that moment, And with a grin, Pornocchio Knocked, And came in. I’ve overheard, He said. I’ve done no wrong. As in his pants His dick grew long Pornocchio Burst into song:
I have some string To tie you tight And fuck you senseless Through the night You’ll have some fun Just wait and see I have some string on me!
C’mon then, Jiminy Crick, Climb the pole And start to lick! JC sighed, I’m well past caring. Gotta say I’m just despairing. It all began with The Blue Fairy. By the way, Boy! Is she hairy! It always tends to Twist your luck If magic beings Want to fuck. Pornocchio Then made a pass Complimented My friend’s arse. I’ve had enough! He is so bad! The cricket said, And then went mad. I’m doing only As I should. I’ll turn you to A pile of wood. (When a crick Goes really manic My advice is Start to panic!) What happened next Beggers belief Such tragedy Fills me with grief. For Porny, Such a naughty liar, Would start so many A New Year’s fire. As for his conscience, Old JC. Sigh! The penitentiary. Could not pay up Twenty grand, So five year’s labour ‒ Breaking sand! It’s so unfair! It’s so unjust! The cricket cried While making dust. My moral is To all you guys Don’t increase Your penis size While telling Lovely ladies lies.
© warmandsexy52 2007 |
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Party Trick
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Posted:Dec 27, 2007 12:46 am
Last Updated:Sep 24, 2012 11:41 am
14090 Views
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“We’re gonna do our party trick,” Said Auntie Flo and Uncle Mick So Uncle Mick arranged the hoist And Auntie Flo made herself moist Then with a very naughty grin My auntie strapped herself right in The bungee harness, very strong - The bungee cord was very long. The launching point was very high “Don’t do it! You will surely die!” We all cried out, “We love you so Dear Uncle Mick and Auntie Flo.” “Not so!” Did Uncle Mick attest. “At bungee-fucking we’re the best. Now we will leap into the chasm Held only by vaginal spasm Upon my mighty, sturdy dick,” Explained heroic Uncle Mick. “I must make sure I’m truly stuck. Bear with me while we start to fuck.” After a most impressive hump Flo cried, “Baby! Jump! Jump! JUMP!!!!” But Auntie Flo then lost her grip ‒ Uncle Mick felt himself slip, And at the bungee’s boingy place Mick flew into empty space. “I’m heartbroken,” sighed Auntie Flo. “Now who else here would like a go?”
定armandsexy52 2007 |
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The Very Worst Christmas Song ........... EVER!!!!
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Posted:Dec 23, 2007 7:13 am
Last Updated:Dec 31, 2007 12:31 pm
15177 Views
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Christmas just isn’t Christmas without the music ‒ that goes from the divine to the diabolical.
At the divine end there are the Christmas carols ‒ nice if you can sing one or two of them yourself sometime in the season, but wonderful to listen to, whether by a choir or by someone like Pavarotti, who used to sing a wonderful Italian carol, that used to always leave that big ol’ softy warm with that “Awwwwww! It’s Christmas” feeling. There’s “Silent Night,” with its origins in Bavaria, where a little mouse nibbled the church organ out of action (as opposed to nibbling other organs into action, lol) and the carol was written for guitar accompaniment, so it’s beautifully simple. Then there’s the swaying in the aisles “We Three Kings.” The lusty “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” and so on. Every one a winner. Woo Hoo Baby Jee ‒ you got some good numbers! But then you are well-connected, I guess.
One step down from the heavenly throng are the real Christmas greats ‒ by Slade, Roy Wood, Pretenders, Bing Crosby, the late Kirsty Mac Coll and the Pogues ….. you know, Christmas party stuff. Many of these, despite being commercial, are every bit as good as the carols, because they’re real fun to sing along with, dance to (well some of them, anyway, and you could do a real smoochie waltz to “White Christmas,” or maybe have a snuggle by the fireside, like in the “Holiday Inn” movie …… warm’s lil heart is going pit-a-pat at the very thought!).
Now here’s the next step …… christmas muzak. Christmas isn’t worth the big C now. These are the bland sounds you get around the mall or hypermart. I somehow think that it adds to the tacky commercialism that revolves around the western world’s biggest festival ……… but on the other hand would walking around in silence be any better? I think not. So maybe I can forgive and forget the anaesthetic effect of muzak on Christmas retail celebration ….. er, shopping …… er, being pressured into overconsumption by the marketing media. Suckers me every time, sigh! How about you?
Now in this season of peace and goodwill to all is there anything that is going to rile my oversated and alcohol-hazed mind? Is there anything that is unforgiveable?
And the answer is YES!
A few days ago I would have been ready to forgive anything at Christmastime but then, driving to work I made the MISTAKE of scanning through the FM channels on the car radio. I was unwitting prey, like a deer wandering into a wolves’ ambush.
I fell victim to Dominick the Donkey. Although released exactly forty Christmases ago it is has to be the nadir of all Christmas songs. Even the most mind-numbingly mediocre of mall and mart muzak leaves this far behind……
Hey! Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw) It's Dominick the donkey. Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey. (la la la-la la-la la la la la) (la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
And the awful thing is it’s like a virus. Richard Dawkins, geneticist and humanist philosopher, author of “The Selfish Gene” has coined a term called a meme. Now a meme is like a psychological and cultural entity that reproduces and competes for survival. Fashion, for example, is ridden with memes, along with celebrity images, even belief system concepts like Christmas itself can be considered to be a meme. Ideological battles, such as those post-9/11, or the decades long struggle with soviet communism can be interpreted in this world view as memes in a life or death struggle for survival, and those ideas from the middle ages that we can no longer relate to at all, or nineteenth century Mongolian cultural value systems (we no longer know what the language was) are memes that are to all intent and purposes extinct, outcompeted and left in the past like long lost fossilised life-forms.
You do not have to like a meme. All it has to do is survive and perpetuate itself …… like those annoying adverts you simply hate, but cannot forget.
And despite being as cute as a chewy teddy sweet coated in strychnine this song is a meme….
A dangerous meme.
Santa's got a little friend, His name is Dominick. The cutest little donkey, You never see him kick. When Santa visits his paisons, With Dominick he'll be. Because the reindeer cannot, Climb the hills of Italy.
I’m feeling sick!
Hey! Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw) It's Dominick the donkey. Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey. (la la la-la la-la la la la la) (la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Where’s the bucket?
Jingle bells around his feet, And presents on the sled. Hey! Look at the mayor's derby, On top of Dominick's head. A pair of shoes for Louie, And a dress for Josephine. The labels on the inside says, They're made in Brooklyn.
I’ll settle for a bowl……..
Hey! Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw) It's Dominick the donkey. Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey. (la la la-la la-la la la la la) (la la la-la la-la la-ee-oh-da)
Too late!
Where do the carrots come from?
Now the worst thing is that the “Hey! Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw)” bit is a real mean meme. You may, like me, simply hate the song, but it sticks like glue to some neural network in the brain.
Hey! Chingedy ching, (hee-haw, hee-haw)
NO! NO! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!! I CAN’T STAND ANY MORE!!!!!!
warm goes away at this point to clear his mind with a combination of free-flying, meditation and a whisky or two.
Not all at once.
warm’s a bloke ‒ he can’t multi-task!
24 hours later.
Whew! That’s better.
Now whatever you do, DO NOT let your curiosity get the better of you and download a donkey Christmas song just to check it out. Consider this to be the equivalent of one of those e-mail virus warnings ‒ except it’s not your computer this time ‒ it’s your brain.
You mean you have in the 24 hours I was away, free-flying, meditating and drinking a whisky or two?
Oh bugger!
Well, make the most of it and…….
HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!
MAY SANTA REALISE YOUR WILDEST DREAMS.
OR SOMEONE DRESSED UP AS SANTA ANYHOWS!
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