Land of Diskgrinder

Sunday meanderings notwithstanding - reading an absolutely crap book: The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper "I'm so fucking funny me, what with my shite literary allusions" fforde (ttwat). But also and maybe, wrote another dull as shit-water fictional speculation concerning some fucked up corporate loonspuddery. And that's swearing. Ah me, for the life of an amoeba - gently extending a pseudopod heavenward in supplication to the one-cell, the one-father (unipotent, uniscient, unipresent; in other words, does one thing, whilst looking at one thing, in the one place - a man). Wafted around on marine breezes, fairly not fucked up by deadlines (I must engulf that fucker. Right now.) Or maybe I'll go multicellular (hydra? Barnacle? Anenome? Something with a plenitude of legs anyway).That way I can flick shit in all directions whilst ironing (7 tentacles for crap-slinging, one for adjusting the steam quotient). Or, balls. I'd like to have multiple balls.

There's a lot (and I should say, being portentous, a vast hinterland) of people who just keep on keeping on and don't measure their morals between authoritarian poles. They don't have, nor want, an external force to guide them in their ethics. And in fact feel slightly demeaned when they have to call on precepts of goodness they have not themselves evolved. That's you and me, basically good, but not because of magic-man-in-the-sky's edicts. So how does that work, and how do you defend that? Easy. I made my own moral compass, and its direction is rounded by my contemplation. I am not so stupid that I need orders to be moral.

Global warming, wind in Denmark, destroy puny human attempt at genuflection before the dead god of metal things erected. Probably. That, or a brake mechanism that failed (the brake was broke). One of the spiralling propellor tines impaled a whale too, but the weasel nest in the turbine nacelle was unharmed, landed gently in the gorse as all about misfired.

Well, more spam goodness for you. This is a particularly poetic and resonant image - lucky pickled herrings setting a trap for unwary cod. See below for cod philosophy . or don't fish are not known (how can they be? They have nothing to say, that isn't bubble-wrapped and reliant on gills) to be philosophers. so where's this idea that cod have philosophy come from? What next: Bream Scientology ? Chubb Macrobiotics ? Tuna Musicologists ? (Arf!)