Tuesday, October 28, 2008
In the morning fug of bleary awakening I had this word in my head: "Grispnak."
And as I did the morning routine (coffee; cigarette; coffee, coffee; cigarette) the dream that word came out of came clear.
This is the wrong way round. Dreams are supposed to dissipate.
Friday, October 17, 2008
What is he, Oh joyous one. Long live he, Lavish me. Why would I Care so much? Is it 'cos I am lush? Not at all He did say But then why? Cos you is gay? No, no, no Not at all. But then why? Well my sir, So he said, Long live me and long live bread But the bread Doth run stale So henceforth He does smell Anyway, what's the point? All-in-all Why fight? No particular reason, He did say, Why else argue? Cos he sways! What pisses me, More than he, Is the cake he so likes What cake likes he? Well - That be the cake The cake of arse Arse biscuits Doth love he.
From arse biscuits, a facebook group
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Well I'm completely fucked off with this latter generation of poesy
It's all cock, or variously worthy, with smelly hippies extemporising breathy inter-locution or trailing off cod mystery.
Fucking shit beans.
If you have a popular vocal method, that trailing off, for singing your own praises
Then fuck right off, kink grease twat
Retract to things that means something: get cold and muscular, or shit and flowery
Whatever, you're all grammar cunts
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
You'll think it's ok, and you'll smile a bit
Then it'll turn out to be between the longwave stations on the dial
Howling feedback saying this:
Rockets were meant to be silver
Jetpacks on jumpsuits for eveyone
And it could have happened
But for the (just as crap as you and I) investment fucks
My grandad was mentioned in dispatches because he blew out a Nazi gun emplacement (machine gun cutting us up) with one grenade.
And also was the highest ranked officer to get out of Arnhem. Swimming across the river with bullets buzzing like bees above.
He got the Military Cross (one below the Victoria) because of his bravery. I'll say that again, because of his BRAVERY.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
See here:. See, I know it's fairly crap. But some of it is ok. And some of it I should delete immediately (and some wakes me up in the tiny hours, to flail down the stairs and delete, delete, like a psychopathic cyberman)
But sometimes I'll just leave it, so when I am grey and old (now, really) I can look back at it and smile a bit (and wince, clearly).
Still, fuck it, it's good enough for me, and that's enough.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The world of geek, as seen from the perspective of the inventors of the computer, in Bletchely Park. Now declassified.
Back in Bletchely in the dying embers of the world at war at two (more on that later) we didn't have the spy eye in the sky so there was no GPS. Instead we installed a thermostat in a horse. If it got close to the direction it would get warmer, warmer, hot. If it veered away it would get cool, cold, colder, icicles. Got us to Droitwich one summer, and back again. (Turing drove).
When we were at Bletchley at the dribbling end of the war, when we had broke the code of the evil empire (and sacrificed Coventry so they wouldn't catch on) we had this same thing going on. Turing fucked off one weekend when SOE came in and shot all the pinkoes and pufters. Mind, they got him later. As your logo attests.
On the iPhone
Pith and vinegar. When Turing was forcibly retired from bombe development in 1946, he had an idea to introduce massive steam-driven mobile telegraphs (in a car that followed you on a leash) to the British public. But sadly he was killed by being forced to take a bite from a cyanide apple by MI5, because he bowled from the pavilion. So, dead, he could not patent his idea for touch-sensitive women.
On open source
When we were greasing the bombes at Bletchley Park (you know, during the war - sstp://WW2.thewar.com) me and Turing discussed the idea of open-sourcing our enigma cracking code (that ran on lightbulbs, leyden jars and twine at the time) and he said, "no, feck off, the Nazis are trolling slashdot, and some beardy twat is bound to post the punch card holes, you know, because 'code should be free' (wankers), now hand me that capacitor wrench"
Saturday, October 11, 2008
That's a conundrum. I can't sit down for five minutes, but I can think for ten. I can't talk to anyone without getting irritated because my skin is hot and itchy. But I can say "hello" nicely.
I can't make dinner, but I can make a cup of tea. I can't watch TV but I can read twitter.
Seems this illness breaks time into small chunks; quanta of attention.
If it takes longer than five minutes, I will have to stand up, frown, and walk around a bit.
Took me an hour to write this. That's a symptom too.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Appel & Haken's proof of the 4 colour theorem was done on a computer in 1976. In 1976 computer terminals had only two colours. Bollocks then
Prove this: there is (not) a number that contains, as contiguous strings, every number that comes before it (e.g. 126, contains 1,2,6,12,26)
For integers, it's easy
So what's the most a number can contain (as contiguous strings) of its predecessors
123456789101113141516171819202122242526272829303132333536373839404142434446... losing one each placeholder gone
write me an algorithm, I will reply with an aphorism, or an embolism
A number that contains (as contiguous strings) less than 32% of its predecessors, and is odd, is a prime number
Or isn't. Maybe it's 2%.
The sum of two squares is always less than one daddio
answer to previous mathematical question: 91
after 91, it gets weird, and the numbers are solutions to imaginary diophantine equations
this is what investment banking is based on
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Because the capitalists are asking for it, demanding it and getting all piss-faced when the government says, fuck off, hold on a minute, I want to think about this.
The capitalists, say, Look, the man, we fucked up hard selling shite to each other based on our grandmothers we sold, so now it's time to hand out one of they fucking big welfare checks we've been telling you all this time distort the economy we just broke.
So the government, on both sides of the atlantic, cave in, and go Ok, like, here's the cost of a free national healthcare system to keep you in silk panties and gold-plated urinals.
But someone in our government hit on a top idea - let's nationalise the fuckers, she says, that'll show them, so here's £50 billion, but we want shares, say about 20% of your bank, cocksuckers.
Because these banks make obscene profits most years (except when they start dealing in multiply-leveraged cotton-wool buttplugs (subprime mortgages)), that's a good deal, a sound investment (not that the banks would know a sound investment if it anally raped them with a fish).
So now taxpayers in the UK are shareholders, and if the banks don't go designing bucket of fart futures again, we stand to actually get a return on our investment.
Cool. But let's not sell the shares back to them when the bankers get out of the arsehole they put themselves in. When they say, cheers then, the man, we're ok. Let's get back to you leaving us alone, m'kay?
The government should say, no, fuck you in the ear. You're nationalised now.
Now, there's other profiteering shitbags out there screwing us in desperate times - the energy companies.
The left has been asking for a windfall tax. Nope, not going to happen - too many vested, double-breasted, interests involved.
So clearly our government should buy 50% shares in the bastards. I'd like to see the negotiation - Hey, slime-mould, nationalistion was ok for the bankers, right? Those pisscakes demanded it, so it's now right on, right wing and neo-con? Nationalisation through shares is ok now, yes? So what are you complaining about? Fuck off, sell me the shares shitbin.
They make shitloads of money, looks like a good investment for us taxpayers. Maybe we could plough the returns into, oh I don't know, lowering taxes.
Ha! Nationalisation lowers taxes! It's a win-win situation, capitalist socialism.
And the old crap about private sector is better managed than public sector because of the twin drivers of profit and shareholder value isn't even in the equation, except for this: yes drive profit for me private sector top-flight management twats; drive it for me, the shareholder, the taxpayer - lower my taxes.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Control the masses with the all consuming self
Make brain-control slug beans, they are good to eat
And then there's mad man dialectic here
Kill, kill them all.
Hidden inside all human beings are dangerous ideals, repressed because the lizard brain spits venom in their eyes.
And then there was the stabbing and shooting wars. Then there was the potential for the glowing and ashen wars, visited out of the sky with nuclear penises digging in the ground, and making mushroom orgasms above.
Is it not obvious we can tunnel to the moon with $700 bn?
Make an iron highway up through the stratosphere, ignoring or condescending to the high altitude balloons, red Apollo rockets and Leica dogs in spiky satellites.
I have the information. Call me. I won't be in.
I have to get to Albonia
They, in their suburban redoubt, tear strips off each other, and this is no good as it reduces both to stinging viscera exposed in the central heating.
There's blood on the floor, and lung on the countertop (that's granite). There's little barbs that accumulate. There's snide asides that hide the welter of halted say that's not true, fuck you. And as the light is off, the bulb needs replacing, there's the click of cliché to say it's all true.
And then there's nothing.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Clearly Chim has to level up at some point. It will happen during a particularly bloody battle: as he smites with Mumpbiter he has introspective moments; things go grainy and black and white and he has an out of body experience.
So he's looking down on himself whirling his sword around his head and shouting in slow motion. And he's talking to this woman who is probably wreathed in glowing stuff, and says gnomic stuff like:
You have the inner thigh of the god of smallness. And you chew through dimensions bordered and caparisoned by the Elder Gods.
Something like that.
He has a sideways revelation during this: he must find (and eat) the One thing. Um, before it's too late. No, sorry, that's not cryptic enough, before the moon kisses the antler of Numptyhammer (better).
He falls back into his soma, and continues with the smiting, but is now slightly wistful as he eviscerates another orc.
At some point he will get covered in shit.