Someone on Fb was giving away a Dash Rapid Egg Cooker. I don’t go in for kitchen single-use gadgets but I hit the search engines to see what rapid could mean since a hard-cooked egg only takes ten minutes in boiling water.
I found this video of someone praising the utility of the device:
So, you see from the video that this device will hard-cook eggs in a little more than sixteen minutes. Very impressive.
Oh, you’ve seen me make this rant if you’ve seen me at all. Here’s a PhD professor of physics helping me!
Here’s an earlier similar dissection.
Have fun with that.
As you surely have noticed, folks usually have two arms and a single shirt; folks have two legs and a pair of pants. What the hell?
Have a look at this list.
You have to reduce the two-ness all the way down to the level of the thong to get to the singular!
Enjoy!
We often forget that we are not the one who commits suicide but only the recipients of realizations relating to the other’s decision to leave us. It’s easy to forget.
The media, as a general rule, does not report on suicides. The reason for this is that when the media reports on suicide there is a corresponding uptick in the suicide rate. We might think of this as a sort of permissions slip passed around the news rooms and living rooms of this Earth. However, when the person who commits suicide is a celebrity there is little avoiding that reporting: we all want to know what has happened, the consequences be damned!
Last night one of my all-time favorite bands lost a singer and friend. Let us take a moment.
That angelic voice, you will note is silent. This is the future echoed from the past.
Please take some time out to say hello to your old friends. They may appreciate hearing from you.
Good-bye, Chris.
Not everyone gets to have a solid foundation in physics. It is a complex science with a heavy reliance on advanced mathematics. This can be a difficult combination. Setting this aside, we can certainly all enjoy a little basic physics.
Here is a primer. Some radiation is bad for you because the particles emitted are energetic enough to at least break chemical bonds. Some radiation is, by comparison, super whimpy. Mostly we encounter the latter. Our most dangerous daily source of the former is typically the sun.
Ok, now you are ready for further reading. Go read this article on the latest craze in mistaken causes for medical ailments sweeping the globe: electromagnatic sensitivity.
“Electromagnetic hypersensitivity” and “wifi allergies”: Bogus diagnoses with tragic real world consequences
If you are still concerned, build yourself a Faraday cage and leave the rest of us alone about it.
That is all.
A friend posted this linked test on her social microblogging area.
My answers to the questions were as follows:
As a way of telling their version of my tale, I will just turn these answers into a narrative based on their answer parameters.
I am the most important person in my life. Then again who isnt? My problems are about the size of the illegitimate love-child of a meercat and a koala bear. I have the appearance of aggression because I splay my innards open and offer my organs for perusal, but there is no pain involved and I can close the case and return to my peaceful existence in a blink.
My home is of an ambiguous size because I never saw the exterior but only saw the room I entered with the table with that note.
No fences. I am open. (I splay myself, remember?).
Yet, my table only contained a note. There was no food on the table (of course I just ate). There were no people on the table (of course people don’t spend so much time on tables these days).
There were no flowers on the table. I am now a little sad there were no flowers with the note. But there was a note. Presumably that note was from a person. I feel good knowing that but I must make a mental note to complain about the lack of flowers.
There is a brass cup, a challice ifyou will, which has survived aeons of abuse and still rings like a bell. (Side note: it might be gold.) In short, I love me. And I love looking deep inside of me. (I love it enough to splay myself open, remember.)
There is a lake that is about the size of my libido. I love to go fishing there. For no apparent reason I have never built a path to circumnavigate this lake beyond which I live, so I sometimes swim across. But if I don’t want to get soaked, I can stick to the shallows and wade the whole way ’round.
(Which I suppose can only mean that sex is both extremely important and only up-to-the-knees important to me.)
Fuck, I laughed my ass off.
Apparently my crazy neighbor to the North made an anonymous complaint about the tree debris in my front yard. Friendly firemin says “no problem, next two weeks sounds fine”.
We’ll just skip over the part where it’s an article from a source known as “spiritscienceandmetaphysics” and just head right into the…
Well, wait… we also have to ignore the utter lack of citation and reliance upon “this guy I knew who dated another guy’s first cousin who was married to an expert”.
Ok, now we can get to the meat of the matter: The Global Hair Conspiracy. Obviously that’s true.
Hear ye! Hear ye! Read all about it! The Global Hair Conspiracy!
Maybe you don’t know about this but hair is dead. There is nothing living anywhere in hair. Even the hair below the surface of the skin (below the dead layer of skin down into the living layer of skin where the hair is manufactured), even down there the hair is dead.
Sure some hairs can transmit small amounts of data into your skin, but the longer the hair the less the data transmission success. So if you have hair like me, almost no data whatsoever gets through.
Yet according to this author I should have psychic abilities, spider senses, I should be a fucking superhero. Well, except I shave my face. More or less. Mostly less. I don’t use a barber.
I just trim it with some clippers. Short hairs. More superpowers. I don’t do it because I hate shaving. I do it for more superpowers! More superpowers!
You people are so lucky I’m not evil, because I would totally take over the world and mess with your shit.
But you might be wondering how we can hope to argue against “the document”, “a thick official looking folder”, or (of course!) “Samson and Delilah in the Bible”.
Don’t even bother. I can feel your thoughts, Interwebaroonies.
Yeah, you know, when the Monkees sang about being a believer they were not thinking “… and my amputated limb will miraculously regrow itself”. You know why? Because even the Monkees weren’t complete idiots.
The alleged power of prayer in medicine has consistently proven itself to be equal to the placebo effect; in other words if you can get better by thinking about getting better and prayer happens to give you those thoughts, you win. To my taste sugar pills are sweeter and easier to swallow.
When it comes to matters rational, the religious among us have given themselves a free-pass to be irreverently irrational. This happens in spite of the steady stream of evidence against any position that the Magic Sky Man is looking out for anyone on good old planet Earth.
As a telling example we have Herbert and Catherine Schaible who have allowed their second child to die while on probation for refusing to seek medical care for their first child (already dead, manslaughter, guilty)—preferring instead to rely upon prayer and faith to heal their child. The court had, as a single condition of their probation, ordered the couple to seek medical treatment for their remaining child should appropriate conditions arise.
They arose.
You can read about that here.
Can there be any doubt that at least some religious observance qualifies as child abuse?
Being that neither C nor myself are cathaholics—she a teetotaler and me an apathetic—we have tossed in the proverbial towel on this so-called St Valentine and his alleged day.
In case you didn’t know (and most don’t), St Valentine had an imaginary friend. The guy can’t stop talking about his imaginary friend. Just loves him. Says he is loved by him. A match made in heaven. But it’s over and over, relentless, like the pounding of the waves upon the beach. Everybody he meets stares in awe as Valentinus Sinusitis regales the very air with luscious adulations of said imaginary friend.
Then he meets an emperor of Rome—let’s call him Claudius—I like the name Claudius—I might name my next cat Claudius—anyway, Valentinus continues to avail every breath which might reach those imperial ears ever-toward the tiresome goal of shouting from the top of a mountain that which could just as effectively be slipped into a note in the pocket of one’s robe like a precious telegram.
have imaginary friend stop
lots of love stop
Long story short… so Claudius says “if you don’t shut the fuck up about your invisible companion I’m gonna have a couple of the boys take you out back and beat you to death”. Valentinus, being a smooth negotiator, talks the emperor into beheading when the beating is done: “if you’re going to do it, your highness, at least do it right”.
Clearly this is the most magnificent symbol of romantic love in the many millennia of humanity’s struggle to find someone with which to enjoy chocolate, perhaps rivaled only by Big Bird’s love of Mr Snuffleupagus—assuming of course someone were to then beat and behead Big Bird.
But hey, Big Bird’s been through a lot lately.
Let’s leave him and his romance to blossom as it will. It’s a harsh world; we should never endeavor to hamper love.
So what might lovers do to spontaneously express their gratitude and joy, nay to celebrate the very fabric of love which binds so many of us together?
Let me turn your attention to another historical figure.
This chiseled human specimen is a novelist and a playwright, loves spanking servant girls in his spare time, did most of his writing in prison, was subsequently elected as a delegate before the National Convention, and can often be heard saying “Seigneur, Madame le Guillotine”.
Let’s have a big round of applause for our first contestant, the Marquis de Sade.
[Insert applause.]
(Actually he’s our only contestant as I don’t plan to stay up all night trying to convince you to laugh.)
The Marquis de Sade was probably born in June of 1740, not that it matters much. Holidays get tossed all over the calendar. If someone doesn’t like where a holiday lands they have always had the option to just move it.
Granted it’s a lot harder with a holiday like the Fourth of July, but as long as it’s named Lumpy Rug Day or Ether Day you have a bit of flexibility. And thanks to the amazing magic of double-think you too can think “it’s always been on that day”.
So 14 February it is.
Not for Lumpy Rug Day; that’s 3 May. Neither for Ether Day; that’s 16 October.
Don’t be silly.
Happy Marquis de Sade Day. Enjoy your spanking chocolate. You can thank me later.