Beating out even acrylic slipper socks. If’n I don’t scare up some spare cash pronto, this may well be what everyone gets this year…a certificate indicating that a donation has been made in your name to the charity of my choice. Click to see which it is.
One size fits all!
Fake Charity Donation Certificate Generator
and, for good measure
So what if they’re a little drunk? The a cappella harmonies are beautiful, and it’s great fun watching Davy and Peter try not to crack up. Bonus: at the end they introduce the whole crew. Looks like it was a fun place to work, even with the ridiculous outfits.
English Translation:
River, roaring river, guard our homes in safety,
God has kept the black wolf from our lamb, our lady.
God has kept the black wolf from our lamb, our lady.
Raging mad to bite her, there the wolf did steal,
But our God almighty defended her with zeal.
Pure he wished to keep her so she could never sin,
That first sin of man never touched the virgin sainted.
River, roaring river…
He who’s now begotten is our mighty monarch,
Christ, our holy father, in human flesh embodied.
He has brought atonement by being born so humble,
Though he is immortal, as mortal was created.
River, roaring river…
Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.
Stole it from Pharyngula, but now that we’ve settled all pesky Cthulhoid-related issues, could there be a quiz more perfect for the ol’ raincoaster blog? I thought not, and so did my alter personalities.
Background:
Born in England sometime in the second decade of the nineteenth century, you carved a notable business career, in South Africa and later San Francisco, until an entry into the rice market wiped out your fortune in 1854. After this, you became quite different. The first sign of this came on September 17, 1859, when you expressed your dissatisfaction with the political situation in America by declaring yourself Norton I, Emperor of the USA. You remained as such, unchallenged, for twenty-one years.
Within a month you had decreed the dissolution of Congress. When this was largely ignored, you summoned all interested parties to discuss the matter in a music hall, and then summoned the army to quell the rebellious leaders in Washington. This did not work. Magnanimously, you decreed (eventually) that Congress could remain for the time being. However, you disbanded both major political parties in 1869, as well as instituting a fine of $25 for using the abominable nickname “Frisco” for your home city.
Your days consisted of parading around your domain – the San Francisco streets – in a uniform of royal blue with gold epaulettes. This was set off by a beaver hat and umbrella. You dispensed philosophy and inspected the state of sidewalks and the police with equal aplomb. You were a great ally of the maligned Chinese of the city, and once dispersed a riot by standing between the Chinese and their would-be assailants and reciting the Lord’s Prayer quietly, head bowed.
Once arrested, you were swiftly pardoned by the Police Chief with all apologies, after which all policemen were ordered to salute you on the street. Your renown grew. Proprietors of respectable establishments fixed brass plaques to their walls proclaiming your patronage; musical and theatrical performances invariably reserved seats for you and your two dogs. (As an aside, you were a good friend of Mark Twain, who wrote an epitaph for one of your faithful hounds, Bummer.) The Census of 1870 listed your occupation as “Emperor”.
The Board of Supervisors of San Francisco, upon noticing the slightly delapidated state of your attire, replaced it at their own expense. You responded graciously by granting a patent of nobility to each member. Your death, collapsing on the street on January 8, 1880, made front page news under the headline “Le Roi est Mort”. Aside from what you had on your person, your possessions amounted to a single sovereign, a collection of walking sticks, an old sabre, your correspondence with Queen Victoria and 1,098,235 shares of stock in a worthless gold mine. Your funeral cortege was of 30,000 people and over two miles long.
The burial was marked by a total eclipse of the sun.
UPDATE: Fixed. Click and play.
Stole this from the Padgett blog, because after wasting a good $6 trying to get the “Upload to Odeo” and “Podcast” thingies working on this goddam rented public computer, I finally figured I’d just go ahead and steal it from someone who’d already ripped it.
Have I mentioned that I’m somewhat peeved at Messieurs Gates and Jobs? Somewhat.
I assume anyone reading this is familiar with Tom Lehrer, but that’s mostly because I assume everyone worth knowing is familiar with Tom Lehrer, being as he’s arguably the greatest musical satirist ever. If, for some reason, you’re not, I would highly recommend you drop everything and pick up a copy of the multi-disc retrospective Rhino put out a few years back. Of course, now that you’ve got that album, you’ve got this song as well (two versions of it!), but I suppose that’s all right.
Lehrer, FYI, is the man who says he got out of political satire because it became redundant when they gave the Nobel Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger.
[ odeo=http://odeo.com/channel/207473/view ]
fuckit, click here for the mp3.
Gawd knows where I stumbled across this, but I had to post it. If this is what it looks like from the space shuttle, imagine what it looks like from directly below! I had the coolest parents when I was little (it was only when I got to be older that they became a PIA); they would wake us up if there were a particularly beautiful set of Northern Lights, so we grew up with the Aurora for our show and tell items, because we were the only little kids who were awake at midnight to watch them.
I also remember a night in Winnipeg, record cold, too, when, just as my mother finished setting the table and called us in for dinner, a huge snowy owl flew right into the living room’s picture window. SMASH! I tell ya, we even turned off Tommy Hunter, even though he had Glenn Campbell on that night! Yep, it was that special.
By the time my father got outside to investigate, the owl was gone. Not the first or last guest to come to temporary grief and lasting headache over the cocktail hour chez raincoaster, alas, but perhaps the prettiest.
We think he was making for the poodle, but we will never know for certain…
raincoaster 