Wednesday, March 29, 2006

God's Phone Number. Chapter 2

© 2006 Peter Stone. All rights reserved
The Story So Far
Jim Kennedy is a Web designer. While at work one day, he receives a phone call from a woman asking to speak to God. Kennedy dismisses the woman as crazy. Little does he realise the nightmare that has just begun.
Chapter Two
I believe that if you have even the minutest trace of creativity, you will, to some degree, end up in slavery to the Muse.

According to Greek mythology, there were nine Muses, all female, and each assigned the responsibility of overseeing a specific area of creativity, - arts, music, writing, that sort of thing - and they all had those amazing Ancient Greek names that give your tongue a hernia when you try to pronounce them. I've never bothered to find out the name mine was christened with. To save the verbal gymnastics, I just call her by the name which I feel best describes who she is. Bitch.

Because I work from home, Bitch Muse has gotten the idea that she can poke and prod at me whenever the fancy takes her, and it’s my luck that she is not only a bitch; she’s also an insomniac. So, at four-thirty in the morning the rotten cow shows no mercy as she drags me out of bed and to my office five metres down the hall.

She has to concede, however, that I'm totally useless until I get some sugar in my system. Grudgingly, she allows me to make a cup of strong tea - two tea bags, three sugars, smidgen of milk - but, even then, she doesn’t let up on me. Jiggling tea bags requires little, or no, conscious thought. It leaves the mind free to chase after more interesting things. Bitch Muse makes sure I chase after the things I need to complete whatever project I'm working on at the time.

All of a sudden, it’s afternoon, breakfast is nothing more than an interesting theory, and I'm starving. By this time, Bitch Muse has forgotten about me. Maybe she goes for an afternoon nap. Well, when you’re thousands of years old, you probably need one. I don’t know. Anyway, the upside is that I manage to get a break and have my first meal for the day.

It’s a bad habit, I know. And, for me, a dangerous one. I'm hypoglycaemic. Too long without eating and my blood sugar levels drop to almost nonexistent. When that happens, I slide into a coma and, following that, I will die.

Too long isn’t necessarily a constant, either. Sitting at the computer, a relatively sedentary activity, doesn’t call for strenuous exercise, so it could take up to eight hours before I pass out. The more active I am, the quicker the onset. I used to play soccer in high school, and I scared the crap out the coach on one memorable occasion. After that, there was always a good supply of oranges close to hand.

So, to stop from collapsing at the computer, I have a bowl sitting beside the keyboard which I keep topped up with lollies and sweet biscuits. It’s a big bowl.

I’ve got a big butt as proof.


Bitch Muse’s grip had been broken by the woman’s phone call, allowing me to go into the kitchen and make some lunch. I had barely begun eating when the phone rang again. Still chewing on a mouthful, I went into the office to answer it.

‘Tangled Web.’ I swallowed.

Someone giggled on the other end. In the background I could hear people talking and music. Shopping centre noise. I looked at the caller display on the phone. OUT OF AREA. A public phone. More giggling, then someone shushing.

I frowned. Now what?

‘Hello?’ Sounded like a teenager.

‘Yes, hello. How may I help you?.’

‘Can I -’ More giggling in the background, more shushing. ‘Can I speak to God, please?’ This time the kid speaking giggled, and his mates behind him laughed out loud.

What the ...? ‘Who is this?’

More laughter, suddenly cut off. He had hung up.

I stood there, totally bemused. Beeping reminded me I was still holding the receiver to my ear. I replaced it in its cradle.

I slowly went back to the kitchen. What the Hell is going on here?

You can imagine my confusion. Two phone calls, two different callers. Both asking if they can talk to God. Was it a full moon or something, and everybody had suddenly gone mad?

I didn’t buy it. Even if two deranged people did ring me, what were the chances of them both wanting to talk to God? It just didn’t gel. This was more than just a couple of random acts of insanity. Something else was going on here. But what?

If both phone calls had been from kids, I might have been inclined to put it down as a prank. But the first call had been from the woman, and it sure didn’t sound like she had been joking. In retrospect, she had really been quite serious. Not to mention that she had also sounded genuinely embarrassed. It hardly seemed likely that she was in any way involved with the kids in the second phone call. Worlds apart, surely? Plus, someone was going to a lot of trouble just to pull a gag.

In the unlikely event this was a prank, I began to wonder who might be capable of such chicanery. Who did I know was able to convince two such disparate groups to ring up and ask for God? I'm ashamed to say one name almost instantly came to mind.


Best mate, partner in crime, confid├ánt, shit stirrer, fabricant de sottise, and inveterate practical joker. Thommo loves giving me the rag. He reckons it’s because I "react so bloody well, Jim Lad." Oh yeah. This had all the hallmarks of a Thommo classic, all right. And once again, I was the target.

I thought about ringing him and giving him an earful, but that was exactly the kind of reaction he’d be looking for. It would only increase his amusement. If you want to put out a fire, you don’t go blowing on the coals. No, best I didn’t go off half cocked. Let Thommo have his little joke.

Five days later, the joke had worn extremely thin. In that time, I received nearly two-hundred phone calls. Six were legitimate business. The rest were for God.

It’s a good thing Thommo doesn’t live close by. I would have cheerfully ripped his head off.


Thommo finally called late afternoon of the fifth day.

At five o’clock, I stop working and close down the office. I let my message bank pick up any incoming calls. Sometimes I work late, (depends on whether I'm working to a dealine, or what have you) however, by this time, Bitch Muse is pretty much bored with me and called it a day. I'm free to do as I please, generally boils down to me veging out in front of the TV until I feel like preparing dinner. After a long day of brain work, it’s great not to have to think about anything for a while.

I was in the lounge room watching a rerun of M*A*S*H when my private phone rang.

‘Arr there, Jim Lad.’

‘Hey, Thommo.’

So! The bastard finally checking up on his dirty work. Deep breath, Kennedy. Don’t react the way you normally do. You know it’s what he wants. Well, he’s going to be sadly disappointed.

‘So, what’s happening?’

As if you didn’t know. ‘Oh, not much. Just watching the telly until I feel like something to eat. You know how it is.’

‘Yeah, too right I do, mate. That’s why I rang. See if you were doing anything tonight.’

Sounded innocent. But that’s how he always sounds, before he moves in for the kill.

‘I didn’t have anything planned. Why? What did you have in mind?’ A laugh at my expesne, perhaps?

‘The Pumphouse has got trivia on tonight. We haven’t seen you there for yonks, and I was wondering if you want to come along.’

Wasn’t that just like Thommo? He likes to try and stretch the joke out as far as he possibly can. He pulls you along, like a kitten chasing a piece of string, get you within striking distance, then pounces. But Thommo had just unwittingly given me an opportunity where I could, for once, spring the surprise on him. I was going to make him admit he was the one responsible for the God calls before he was ready to.

Thommo's major weakness is that he’s totally incapable of lying. If you can catch him out with one of his pranks before he’s ready to spring it, he simply cannot deny it. He might try, but his face gives him away. He squints his eyes, his cheeks turn red, and I swear his ears wiggle.

More importantly, he stutters.

‘God, I don’t know, Thommo. I'm pretty stuffed. Been trying to get this new web site up and running, but it’s still not working properly. And with all these bloody phone calls distracting me ...’ There. Door’s open, mate. Come on in. Let’s see what you’ve got to say for yourself.

‘Phone calls? What phone calls?’ Nothing. Not even the slightest tremor.

This could only mean Thommo had nothing whatsoever to do with the phone calls.

And I had been so damned sure!

My cheeks began to burn. ‘Oh, mate. You’ve got no idea the shit I've been going through this week,’ and I told him about the phone calls for God.

When I finished he said; ‘You’re shitting me!’

‘God's truth. No pun intended.’

‘And this started when?’

‘Five days ago.’ Five long, miserable days ago.

‘Nearly two-hundred calls, you said. Got any idea what started it?’

‘Nope.’ I hesitated. ‘I kind of thought maybe it was you, playing one of your bloody jokes again.’

‘Jim Lad, I'm touched that you would think of me, flattered even. But I'm afraid I can’t take any credit for this one. Not even at my peak would I have ever dreamed up a stunt like that. Get a whole bunch of strangers to ring you and ask for ...’ He paused. ‘Oh, hang on!’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Oh, shit!’ He let out a whoop of laughter.

‘Oh, shit what, Thommo? What’s going on. If you know something, I’d appreciate if you let me in on it.’

‘It’s that movie!’ He cackled.

‘Huh? Movie? What movie? Thommo, what the hell are you talking about? What’s a friggen movie got to do with it?’

‘It’s that new movie, came out last week. You know the one. We were talking about it when they showed the shorts. "Omniscience". Comedy. About a bloke, gets a whack on the head and, when he wakes up, he knows everything. You know, everything!’

‘Yeah, I know the movie you’re talking about. I was thinking of maybe going to see it next week. But what’s that got to do with these bloody phone calls?’ I was way lost.

‘It’s your phone number!’ He was really laughing now.


‘Your phone number!’

‘Yeah, you said that already. I don’t get it. What are you talking about?’

‘Look. This guy gets smacked on the head, knocked out, right?’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So, when he wakes up, he suddenly knows everything there is to know. With me so far?’

‘So far. Go on.’

‘Well, one of the things he knows is God's phone number. And guess what?’

‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.’ It doesn’t take much for me to catch on. Just hit me over the head with a brick. I'll get it. Eventually.

‘Nup! In the movie, God's phone number is yours! Well, your business number, any rate. I thought it was pretty funny when I heard it, but this! This is just too hilarious!’ He whooped again. ‘You mean people are actually ringing you up and asking for God? Who’d have thunk it?’

‘It’s all right for you,’ I bridled. ‘It’s not you they’re harrassing. All bloody week they’ve been ringing, and it’s really pissing me off! I’ve got stuff all bloody work done because the bastards won’t leave me alone.’

‘I know, mate. I know. But you’ve got to admit, it is pretty bloody funny. Jesus, there must be some sad people out there.’

‘You got that right.’ I said. ‘Some of the things they’ve said are so pathetic, you’d be amazed.’

‘Yeah? Oh, shit! This I've got to hear! Jim, mate, you’ve got to come to the Pumphouse, tell me all about it. Hey! How about we buy dinner? Give us some time to talk before the trivia starts. I'll even shout you the first brandy.’

I’ll tell you straight. It was the best offer I’d had all week. Get out of the house and away from the office for a while. Meet up with Thommo, have a few drinks. Get a little drunk.

Getting drunk! Now there’s an idea. Bitch Muse doesn’t like it when I'm drunk. She can’t wake me up.

‘You’re on, Thommo! Be there in a couple of hours.’


Thommo and I first met in a ten pin bowling league. We just clicked, and have been best mates for over twenty years now. I always enjoy when we get together and terrorise the town. We have a great time. Lots of good conversation, and the jokes and laughter flow freely.

It hadn’t taken a lot to convince me that a night on the town was what I needed. It would be good to let loose, forget about everything that had happened during the week. At least, for a while. The God calls had driven me to distraction, the insistent ringing of the phone giving a permanent headache. By the time Thommo rang, I was on edge, volatile. Concentrating on my work was almost impossible and, a couple of times, I had seriously contemplated smashing the computer because something wasn’t working out right. I definitely needed a break, and when it comes to having a good time, Thommo is a fully paid up, card carrying member of the League of Larrikins.

He’s quite a character. Tall and gangly, with dark shoulder length hair that always looks like he’s combed it with his fingers. Most of the time, the lower half of his thin angular face is covered with shabby, half-grown beard because he hates shaving. When he can get away with it, he dresses in the style he lovingly refers to as "Thommo Formal"; collarless T-shirt, faded jeans with torn knees and back pocket half off, and tattered, street wise Dunlop joggers, no socks.

But don’t let his appearance or behaviour fool you. He’s highly intelligent and extremely perceptive. His eyes and ears miss nothing. Every nuance, every little inflection is noted, analysed and stored. As an observer of the human condition, there are few better than Thommo.

You see, he’s a writer. One of the rare variety who actually earns a living from it. He picks up regular work as freelance for the newspapers. The Saturday edition of one of the big dailies recently commissioned him to write six articles about travelling on Melbourne’s public transport. He writes short stories for women’s magazines, as well as competitions which he regularly does well in. He has also just had his first novel published, a detective thriller which looks like being a big seller.

Spending time with Thommo always leaves me with a feeling of satisfaction and contentment; like I've just eaten a nourishing meal. I was really looking forward to my night out as I locked the front door and made my way to the train station.

Monday, March 27, 2006

It's coming.

For those of you who have asked about Chapter 2 of "God's Phone Number", it is on its way. Just needs some rewriting.

Chapter 1 was altered in a couple of ways, which subtly changed the voice, thereby giving subsequent Chapters a discordant note. As anyone who writes will tell you, a small change here often leads to major renovations further on. While Chapter 1 is the entrance to the tale, Chapter 2 is much more the structure, and needs to be just right.

I will try not to be too long with it, I promise.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Seven songs.

Pirate over on his Journal has posted the seven songs he plays the most. I can't say as how I have seven specific songs that I play more than any others, mainly because I have a wide range in taste. However, I was able to come up with seven I really like listening to.
  1. The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan - Dr. Hook. You may recognise this song as the one that got a good run in the movie Thelma And Lousie. While Marianne Faithful does a good job with this tune, I reckon Dennis Locorriere does it best. After all, he wrote it for his voice.
  2. Freakin' At The Freaker's Ball - Dr. Hook. Rude, crude, disgusting, shocking and bloody funny. Love it!
  3. Live This Life - Big & Rich. Strong message packed tightly in some high grade lyrics, supported by a top melody.
  4. Hitchcock Railway - Joe Cocker. The tune gets to me with this one. Always crank it up when I hear it on the radio.
  5. Dreamweaver - Stratovarius. Great guitar licks, solid drumming, almost a rock opera, lead singer who leaves Axel Rose in his dust. A dream track for anybody who plays an air instrument.
  6. On Walks The Night - Jesse Cook. An up tempo instrumental from this flamenco guitarist. The whole tune gets to me.
  7. Miss Ghost - Don Henley. From his album Inside Job. Again, some really good music topped with excellent lyrics. A musical metaphysical journey.

Like I said, a wide range of tastes. Necessary, I think, considering my rapacious appetite for music.

Air, En L'.

This is one of those stories that leaves you shaking your head at the marvellous wonder of it all.

As you may know, Melbourne is currently hosting the Commonwealth Games. In the lead-up, one of the major banks released numerous advertisements on television with a Commonwealth Games theme. One of those ads has been set in a ballet class. At the back of the group of women is a great lumbering bloke trying, without much success, to follow the rest and spin on one leg. The teacher, observing his plight, gives him some one-on-one instruction after everyone else has left.

As the man spins around, the image morphs into him spinning and releasing a discus in a sporting arena. There is the sound of a crowd cheering, and the ballet teacher is standing there, looking on with pride plainly stamped on her face.

The concept behind these ads is that, with the right help and experience, together we can achieve our greatest goals. All in all, a very successful campaign.

Meet Scott Martin, star of the advertisement and - although not many people realised it until a couple of nights ago - Melbourne athlete representing Australia in the Commonwealth Games in two events; shot-put and, you guessed it, discus. The reason he looks so happy in the picture on the left is simple. On Thursday night, Scott won the gold medal in the discus. Quite a few people were amazed when they realised he was the "bald bloke in that ad". It would seem the ballet lessons paid off, and I can just see thousands of budding shot-putters and discus throwers signing up for the next class.

And it's also possible that the woman who played the part of the teacher had some hand in his success. She is actually a qualified ballet instructor. How's that for a little synergy?

One of those pleasant little quirks of fate that pop up from time to time especially to put a smile on our faces.

Photos borrowed from the Herald Sun, with thanks.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Word play.

© 2006 Peter Stone. All rights reserved

Diseased, anaemic light suppurated down from the street, oozing along the sides of the office blocks lining the alley, bleeding out, barely reaching the building at the far end. I was alone in a world of poisonous, cancerous shadow.

Christ, Kennedy! What the hell is the matter with you? Do you really think ... Behind me!

I spun around, shoes scraping on the concrete, the noise resounding around the buildings. It sounded like they - like he - was sniggering at me. At my foolishness. There was no-one there, of course, but the hair at the back of my neck bristled. I could feel them; his eyes. Don't ask me how, but I was sure he was watching me. Just as any predator will watch prey that has foolishly wandered into its territory.

This was where he lived. This was where others died. A place I had no business being, yet it was a place I had to be. I had to know if he was going to kill here again; if this was where he was going to sacrifice another innocent woman in my name. If he hadn't done so, already.

The walls stopped snickering.

I moved deeper into the shadows.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Is someone missing a bookshop?

Our house is being overrun by books. No matter which direction you turn, you see a book. I swear, as soon as the lights go out, they get together and do things that result in them multiplying. Well, that's our excuse and you're sticking to it.
S reckons it's my fault. She says I force her to buy books, or, alternatively, I don't exercise enough control over her and prevent the purchase. Then she says they're mostly mine, anyway. Uh huh.
Anyway, to accommodate the abundance of reading material, we came to the conclusion we needed another set of shelves in the hallway. This meant emptying the overflowing monster you see below, moving it along the floor so we had room for the extra shelves, then repacking the whole thing.

How many books do you reckon would fit in this bookcase, bearing in mind that there two more shelves below the one you can just see at the bottom of the picture?

Well, let's start with these.

Then add these.

We'll put these ones in, too.

Oh! And don't forget these ones.

And just for something different, we'll shove these in as well.

As you can see, we had a task ahead of us. One that took all afternoon, and still isn't finished. S's Virgo-osity demands we don't just put the books back in the case willy nilly. They must go in alphabetically by author then title, subdivided into fiction, non fiction, children's.

Around one-hundred books got their eviction notice and will either be sold on E-Bay or evacuated to the Op Shop, but there are just so many.

I've always dreamed of owning a book shop. I don't think this is quite what I had in mind, though.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

God's Phone Number. Chapter 1.

© 2006 Peter Stone. All rights reserved.
Chapter One

"A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step."

Lao Tzu, an old bloke from ancient China, obviously had a lot of time on his hands when he came up with that gem. I guess, in the sixth century BC, sitting around contemplating one's navel was as wild as it got so, in order to relieve the boredom, Lao decided to think up a few truisms.

I doubt very much he would have had in mind the ringing of a telephone as the first step of a peregrination, but that's how my journey through Hell began.


'Tangled Web.'

Silence. The hollow kind of nothing unique to telephones.

'Hello? Tangled Web. Can I help you?'

Stammering on the other end. 'Oh! Umm - I thought - I was look - this isn't ...?' A female voice, middle aged, sounded like. 'I think I've rung the wrong number.'

'What number did you want?'

She recited the phone number. Mine.

'Yep. That's the number you've rung.'

'Oh.' More silence.

'Maybe if you tell me who you're looking for, I might be able to help you,' I prompted.

'Umm, no. No, I don't think so.'

So what do you want, lady? 'You sure?'

'Well. I don't know. I feel kind of silly. I mean, what if ...?' She stalled again. Obviously having trouble putting her thoughts into words. Don't you just love people like that?

The phone call had come at the wrong time, interrupting me in the middle of trying to sort out a complicated piece of Java coding. I started to get a little impatient, hoping the woman would just spit out whatever it was she wanted, so I could get back to it.

'Look, it's a common mistake, people ringing the wrong number. Happens all the time. Nothing to get embarrassed about. But if I can help in any way ...?' I briefly entertained the notion that I may be able to sell her a web site.

Hey! You never know when opportunity's going to come knocking. Or ringing.

'But I rang you, not -'

'Maybe you wrote the number down wrong.'

'No, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I got it right.'

'Well, then, who were you looking for?' Exasperated.

'God?' A small tiny voice.

'Excuse me?'

'I thought - believed - this was God's phone number. I mean, he sounded so sincere when he - and I thought it would be a really good opportunity to ...' Her voice faded again.

I blinked, closed my mouth.

'This isn't God, is it?'

I was flummoxed. I've had people ringing me with all sorts of odd requests - it comes with the job - but I've never had anyone call and ask to speak to God before.

My natural response was to burst out laughing which I started to do, but then I had a horrible thought. What if this woman wasn't all there? Matter of fact, what if she was totally insane? Laughing might really piss her off. At me! Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

Picture: crazed harridan, huge carving knife, me running in the dark.

I've seen the movies.

I expertly covered the laughter by faking a coughing fit. Sir Laurence would have been proud!

'No, sorry, I'm not God. I'm Jim Kennedy.' Oh gee! That was clever! Give the crazy woman your name, she's already got your bloody phone number. Next thing you'll be giving her your address and inviting her to dinner.

'This is my business, Tangled Web. I design and create web sites for people, and that's pretty much it. Nothing to do with God, I'm afraid. Although - now I think of it - if you look at it from the point of view that my business is creating new worlds, I guess you could say there is some similarity. Of course, I have a long way to go before I get anywhere near His standards. But, given time ...'

I had to smile. It was so absurd. I mean, really. Who on earth would believe you could get in touch with God, just by phoning Him? Of course, I couldn't be certain that the woman on the other end of the phone actually was on earth.

'I feel so stupid. I really do,' she said.

'It's okay. An honest mistake.' Did that sound too patronising?

'I don't know what I was thinking. Please, forgive me.'

'Nothing to forgive. We all do these things from time to time.' Maybe so, but I couldn't think of the last time I rang God. 'No harm done.'

'This is so embarrassing. I must sound like such an idiot.'

No comment.

'I'm really sorry for bothering you. I don't know what I was - Anyway, I'm sure you're busy, and I've taken up enough of your time already. I better go. Thanks for being so understanding.'

I wasn't sure I understood anything. 'It's fine. Like I said before, no harm done. And listen, if sometime in the future you need a web site designed,' sometimes I just can't help myself, 'Well, you got my number.'

A pause. 'Yes, I have, haven't I? Goodbye, then,' she said, and hung up.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I burst out laughing.


I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking I could have treated the poor woman better, not been so tongue in cheek about the whole thing. All things considered, though, I reckon I handled it all pretty well. I mean, have you ever had someone ring up and ask to speak to God? It was easy to dismiss her as some poor soul a couple of rungs short of a ladder. And there wasn't any real harm done. Slightly disturbing perhaps, but innocuous just the same.

But then, isn't that how all nightmares begin?

Monday, March 13, 2006

Just a thought.

If today's paparazzi had existed in the 1930's, Greta Garbo would never have died a recluse.

Sun, sand, surf, sea air and squelching soldiers.

A couple of weeks ago, S and I decided to just get in the car and drive. The idea was to simply see where the road took us, and escape the daily routine for a little while. The road took us to Phillip Island, where we finished up at the beach at Cowes. (The photo isn't mine. I borrowed it from someone elses' holiday snaps, with thanks. I forgot my camera.)

After having a wander through the town, and paying a pretty steep price for a coffee and a milkshake, S and I went for a walk along the beach. The tide was out and, because it was a week day, the beach was relatively quiet, with very few people. The water was calm, like it is in the photo. A light breeze ruffled the surface now and then, making the water sparkle with a million points of light.

As we came to a flat part of the beach, in between the water and high tide mark we noticed thousands of little bumps which I first took to be little balls of sand.
As we got closer we realised they were small crabs, not much bigger than an Australian fifty cent piece. I have since found out that they were soldier crabs, but up until that time, neither S nor myself had ever seen these creatures before.

Our path was taking us right through the middle of them, so we approached carefully, thinking they would do what any crab would do and scuttle away. We couldn't have been more wrong.

They obviously felt the tremors of our footsteps, but instead of dashing away, they would drop down on one side, then spinning slowly on the spot, would dig themselves into the sand. It was like watching a break dancer melt into the ground. Naturally, S and I were absolutely fascinated by this behaviour, and we stopped to watch. It was kind of fun to move towards a group and watch them fade into the sand. And if we stood still for a short period, they would reappear, the same way they diappeared. A kind of now-you-see-me-now-you-don't-now-you-do.

At one point we came to a large clump of seaweed which had been exposed by the departing tide. The joint was jumping! This must have been the soldier crab's equivalent of MacDonalds. There were heaps of them all around and over it, enjoying a good feed.

But the really amazing thing, I felt, was that the beach was so quiet you could hear the crabs under the surface. Imagine it. Thousands of little creatures squelching through wet sand. Wow!

We both came home a little sun burned and a lot weary, but we really enjoyed our time out. Sometimes I think this metropolitan lifestyle can be quite stifling, and it takes a good dose of Nature to recharge. Perhaps it was fate which led us to Phillip Island and the soldier crabs that day, or maybe it was an unconscious desire on my part as the driver. Who knows? What I do know is that is that it was a breath of fresh air, in more ways than one.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Short briefs.

Emporer Howard decided to mark the occasion of his tenth anniversary in power with a dinner last night. He charged his loyal subjects $1,000 each for the privilege of kissing his butt. There are brothels where you can kiss butt for a lot less. And they're better looking, too. Probably more sincere as well.

The Universe is filled with paradoxes. One of the more intriguing is the trial of Saddam Hussein in Iraq. He rants and raves, and generally carries on like a petulant child, yet it is American foreign policy which is being exposed to the ridicule. I bet there are quite a few in the intelligence community wishing he had been killed in the first bombing run.

Speaking of Saddam, maybe he can employ the Abdication of Responsibilty Defence and sue the United States governement. Like the people in the U.S. who decided to sue McDonalds because they were fat. He could always claim the Americans failed in their duty to inform him of the possible ramifications of using the technology to build weapons of mass destruction when they sold it to him.

The weathermen are playing the roulette wheel again. They've upped the maximum for today by another three degrees.

Has anybody answered the musical question, "Is she really going out with him" yet?

I have learned; never yawn while spraying underarm deodorant.