Book porn

Ah. Blogging to the melodic sound of the basset licking his butthole on the bean bag. The soundtrack of my life. My wife and I diverge here on parenting techniques for the hound dog. I’m happy to let him lick his derriere. Clearly his rusty sheriffs badge is in need of maintenance. Who am I to stick/throw a spanner into the works? My wife however finds the concept of him rim-jobbing himself unsettling. First will come stern words. Then even sterner words with sinister undertones. (personally I surrender at this point) And then some form of thrown object. And then… depending on the trajectory of said object… possibly getting up and engaging the basset hound in some form physical confrontation. Sometimes it’s works. But mostly he’ll just glare at us, and then move off to some other location to continue his tongue to ass action.

In other outrageous news Joey is eating half a lindt chocolate bunny for dinner. We (my wife and I) briefly discussed the ethics of eating the sprogs easter eggs. Turns out we are both okay with it. ie. Basically we are honorless Ronin who burn villages and spurn seppuku. We’re saving her from a lifetime of sugar addiction and hardship…. is how we justify our actions. Next year old tricks won’t work so well anymore. She’s already wising up to our schemes and machinations. We will endeavour to up our tactics some in anticipation of next years hunger games/easter.

I’m trying a Tim Ferrissianism. I think it’s a Tim Ferriss thing in any event. I used to be such a hard core disciple. Now I’m more like an occasional adherent. Tim Ferriss is or maybe was, more like a gateway drug. For me anyway. I have outgrown the master and now need to find my own path. (which as far as I can tell slopes downwards and is over grown with weeds and thorny busges)

Anyway, one thing that he does which I like is turn books that have influenced him greatly outwards to face him on the bookshelf. The reasoning being some sort of reminder of imparted knowledge. I haven’t quite done that, but I’ve moved a few select works from my bookshelf to small shelf in front of my MacBook. That way they’re always in my line of sight.

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Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari should be in there. But my copy is so completely warped by water damaged that I’m going to have to repurchase it. In any event I often now myself staring at them, trying to channel some sort of zeitgeist from their cracked spines and dog eared pages. Make me ‘clever’ I murmur to them. In any event I find it reassuring that there clever people out there, creating great content, even if I am not. Gives me hope for the species. Thanks guys.

On cannibalism

Its one forty one in the morning. The child is sick and teething (looks like a pre-molar) and not sleeping. The wife is sick and not sleeping. I feel really useless and I’ll feel really treacherous if I go back to sleep now.  So instead the German (she’s very sensitive to the goings on in the house) and I have taken to the lounge. My options are working, blogging or building lego. I’ve already lost the online boardgame I was playing earlier to some twelve year old Eastern Bloc kid with an unpronounceable surname (with way too many vowels and WAY TOO MANY end of the alphabet letters). Son-of-a-bitch crushed me like an empty eggshell. I tried some Playstation. But that little Baba Yaga facsimile seemingly stole my mojo when he was kicking my head into the pavement. Which just meant ineptitude and me being a bullet magnet for forty minutes.

Thats the way I roll these days he said, tossing his controller down in disgust.

Otherwise my easter was okay I guess. Back in the day this was always a church marathon for me. Holy thursday. Good Friday. Easter Vigil. Easter Sunday. Somewhere in between all that you’d wedge in Stations-of-the-cross for extra credit. Either as an altar boy frenetically swinging the thurible, (which is that metal ball attached to a chain that the incense comes out of) or in some other role, reading, dispensing communion etc. I was a committed little zealot. No job to puny.

Now instead of waking up early to go to mass on a Sunday morning. I wake up early to take the dogs to Emmarentia, an all round much better use of time and energy.

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It’s quiet, misty and beautiful early. There’s no one around. Except those crazies in camouflage setting up their fishing gear. I worry about those people. And not only because of their woodland attire.  Well… why you would need to purchase ‘Vietnam level’ concealment to cast a line for catfish in a suburban dam is mystifying to me. Clearly a caste of beings whose mindset I don’t understand. I write it off as too much Rambo – First Blood when they were young and impressionable.

Different spiritual strokes for different folks. Some cram themselves into holy spaces to sing the praises of a mystical tea pot (called Russell). Some don ghillie-suits and bring death to barbel. To me, now, as an outsider looking in, their dysfunction is about the same. I hope they come around. But I figure they’re probably too far gone. Once you’re plumbing the depths of suburban water sources (for an inedible fish) dressed in Tiger stripe and Flecktarn I think you’ve reached some sort of mental event horizon where I can no longer see you. No pun intended.

In other news he said, glancing over at his home made pallet coffee table. My assembly square is coming along.

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Its slightly more than half way now I think. Ha ha. Yes, I realise I dismiss crazy people fishing at 6am on Easter Sunday and then proudly display my own personal psychosis in fashion that resembles a remark like ‘would you mind passing the butter’.

Hmm. Butter. (I’ve recently discovered the amazingness that is Butro, god, I’ve lead a deprived life up until this point) The problem with being up at this time is that you are damn hungry. That pre-dawn hour where you would stumble out of Doors (in Marshall street) and count out your silvers for a mystery meat* burger from the vendor cart positioned strategically between you and the Carlton center parkade.

*widely believed to be most likely rat or street urchin. Possibly a combination of the two. Now I don’t always condone cannibalism. Unless you’re in crashed plane somewhere in the Andes… or… you’re stumbling out of Doors or Le Club at 3am in the morning.

When Doors moved to Edenvale it lost alot of that… street cred. That element of danger disappeared. As did the ‘gastronomie mysteriis’. On the plus side the girls in Edenvale were pretty much guaranteed to have their front teeth… Not always a given when you crossed railway tracks…. these days edge of your comfort zone is Braamfontein. And the Maboneng precinct. So sad.

Wish I had some cereal. Fruit loops right now would constitute joy as well as happiness. Alas, I know there to be none. Having purloined the last of said cereal last week sometime already. Perhaps I should settle for toast. With Butro. And coffee. Of the Kronung variety. Will this sate my hunger?

You know that lifeboat morality trolley problem? And everyone has agreed that cannibalism is the only way to survive. And now everyone is debating how best one should go about deciding who gets eaten? The egalitarian/libertarians are arguing about drawing straws.

While all this is going on… you should nonchalantly pick up an oar. And then viciously… but surprisingly… smack the fattest person on head as hard as you possibly can. Even if you don’t kill them… you can argue their… eh… disability now marks them as the weakest link in your lifeboat. Sure people might be angry with you for bypassing the democratic process. But really, since they are still alive… they will be relieved. Also you have an oar… and have demonstrated that you’re not afraid to use it.

Also, doesn’t it make sense to eat the fattest person first?

Obviously this is more of a long term survival thing. Smashing people with oars when Captain Sully has just splashed you down in the Hudson is a less desirable trait.