The Internet is for porn…

…and that’s why the biggest search engine is called Go ogle.

The Only-Begotten Children

I’m not the only one to have Only-Begotten Children, but so does Prince Philip, as witnessed by the Reverend Hubert Rumtumtibumbum (starts at 5:00):

Warning

Outside Gröna Lund there is apparently a place for those who want to jump the shark:

I det militära

Mycket ung officer – blöjtnant.
Officer i Musikkåren – flöjtnant.
Maskerad officer – slöjtnant.
Lat officer – lojtnant.
Bonde och reservofficer – plöjtnant.
Skojfrisk officer – plojtnant.
Tramsig ung officer – blajtnant.

Sån’t gör man numera, som fröken vet, med elektricitet

Upphittat av Gullebullen på Stockholms Stadsbibliotek:

Egna och andras sjukdomar

En bekant var förtvivlad över hur cancern bröt ner hennes närstående och det var blott med en övermänsklig ansträngning som jag lyckades avhålla mig från att kommentera:
– Jag hör att du är på dåligt umör.
men i längden går det inte att hålla det inne.

Happy New Year!

There are very few Jews in Montana, which is probably why there isn't a Rosh Hashannah Montana.

Trädgårdsgräl

 – Jag sköter gödslandet av rabatten, du ska bara skita i den!

Livet i överklassen

…och när man rumlat färdigt vid Stureplan går man till korvkiosken och köper en bratwurst.

Biological math

It just struck me that unicellular organisms multiply by dividing.

Tämliga barnvisor

Nisse ville sjöman bli,
segla till Jamaica.
Beska piller fick han då,
tvångströja fick han också
om den breda, ludna bringan.

Dress code

I don’t have very good memory for faces, so that I didn’t quite recognise the fellow coming towards me in the street was no surprise, but the T-shirt he wore came from a data communications workshop small and obscure enough that I knew all participants and it had been twenty years; accordingly I greeted him cordially.

It turned out that while he liked the T-shirt a lot, he had no idea what it represented—he’d been given it at the homeless shelter.

I think this is what sartorially immaculate Honeybuns has been trying to tell me: hobos look just like computer scientists.

Packet pigeons

RFC1149 is a well known April 1st joke on data communication via carrier pigeon, but of course you can't have a standard proposal just lying around without a test implementation, which the Bergen Linux User Group has done.

Sjung som en pirat!

Min katt har nio svansar,
nio svansar har min katt
och har den ej nio svansar
så är det ej min katt!

Get drunk or get out!

So we had to postpone eating our sandwiches until we got ashore.

Day of thunder, hour of power

Recently it was Perks time at work and we took off in the Friday afternoon to an undisclosed location that turned out to be an indoor gocart track where we were dressed in sweaty overalls and rather icky helmets and then took off around the track with the goal to complete as many laps as possible in one hour. It's rather sweaty stuff, this race driving, so we worked as tag teams, trading places every ten minutes.

My team ended up last, with the fewest laps. We were last already when I first got to drive and me pushing the pedal to the metal to make up for lost time just won me sojourns off-track, covered in the tyres that made up the crash barrier.

But anyway, here I am, doing the Steve McQueen thing:

Machtübernahme von hinter die Regalen

Martin R anar konspirationer i vassen:
– Samhällets mest rasrena härskarstam är bibliotekarierna.
Jag:
– De är ju dock i allmänhet alltför otränade för att klara att ta makten med våld, men den dagen de går ihop med gymnazisterna får vi se upp.
– En dag kommer all deras storhet att bara vara gamla papper som tas om hand av de veka och degenererade arkivarierna.
– Fast om de påbörjar en avelskampanj med seminarier?

I am easily amused

From Scale Aviation Modeller International:

The tailplane is a butt fit…

Whiplashed

Signspotting is having an exhibition in Kungsträdgården right now, showing whacky street signs from around the world. I thought I'd make copies of this and hang around the necks of my bosses.

The Order of Events

Once when I was talking with my mother the subject of “Where were you when you heard that Kennedy had been killed?” came up.
“Oh, I remember it so well, we were at Grandma's with you and your brother when they said it on the wireless.”
[headexplode] “What!? I wasn't even born when Kennedy was killed!”
[confused] “Sure you were.”
“John F Kennedy was killed in 1963!”
“John? I'm talking about Robert.”

Lesson: precision.