Japanese Kamikaze Manual

The moment of the crash

You are two or three meters from the target. You can see clearly the muzzles of the enemy’s guns. You feel that you are suddenly floating in the air. At that moment, you see your mother’s face. She is not smiling or crying. It is her usual face.

All the happy memories. You won’t precisely remember them but they are like a dream or a fantasy. You are relaxed and a smile creases your face. The sweet atmosphere of your boyhood days returns.

You view all that you experienced in your 20-odd years of life in rapid succession. But these things are not very clear.

In any event, only delightful memories come back to you. You cannot see your own face at that moment. But because of a succession of pleasant memories flashing through your mind, you feel that you smiled at the last moment. You may nod then, or wonder what happened. You may even hear a final sound like the breaking of crystal. Then you are no more.

Read more of this beautiful madness over at the Shebeen Club blog.

historical hoodies

Fascinating accounts of Victorian criminality, rescued from the oblivion of the humble dumpster. From the Daily Mail, via Fark.Wee Georgie Sayers

Little George Sayers was scarcely a hardened criminal. Just 13 years old, small for his age due to malnourishment, his little face screwed up in an expression of bewilderment, he faced the police camera in May 1900 fearing, quite rightly, that he would be beaten for his crimes.

George was accused of stealing handkerchiefs, rugs, skirts and shirts worth three pounds and ten shillings from the Newcastle shop where he was employed as an errand boy.

When he heard the charge, he burst into tears. One of some 14 children, whose father had deserted his 52-year-old mother Emma, leaving her to feed and clothe her huge brood alone. He was accused along with his mother, who admitted she had put him up to his petty thieving. ‘I told him to take them. Don’t blame the boy,’ she gallantly told the police.

Another of the pair’s methods was to steal clothes off the neighbours’ washing lines, whereupon Emma would whisk the loot around to the local pawnbroker where they were hocked to get money for the family. It was the pawnbroker who tipped off the police when he became suspicious.

These stories, and some 300 others, all equally poignant, have just been uncovered by retired North Shields policeman Ken Banks.

Every now and again a new study comes out, saying exactly the same thing as every study ever commissioned on the same damn subject: the majority of crime is committed by young men.

And every now and again, someone says “Well, now that we know who’s responsible, we can take action.” And they go on to say exactly how, in minute detail and at great length, particularly if they’re paid by the word. No actual progress in reducing the crime rate so far, even by those who are looking to lay a Putin on the skulking minors.

The problem transcends culture, race, and even time itself; look at the historic documents and legends of any culture on the planet. It’s always the damn hoodies!

The solution is not to ban rap music. The solution is not to blast ultrasonic waves or Wagner into the park at night, annoying the neighbors and turning the usually peaceful squirrels into raging Clockwork Orange Lodge Members in good standing.

The solution, my friends, is to ban young men.

Simple, elegant, and utterly effective. Rather than wait several years until they’re eligible for trial as adults and real (and really expensive) prison time, I suggest that we just pre-emptively lock them up from the ages of 12 to, say, 21.

I know what you’re thinking.

Half of my readers are thinking, “Well dammit, isn’t that what we’ve got tv and meaningless after-school activities for?

While the other half are thinking “Well dammit, isn’t that what we have boarding school and University for?

And quite right you both are. With the half-life of a hoodie at only five years, containment IS solution.

Chico rocks out on YouTube

From BoingBoing. As a YouTuber noted, it’s great to see somebody having that much fun doing his job. Chico is everyone’s second favorite Marx Brother, but when it comes to the piano, there is just no contest.

you scream, I scream…and only the abyss answers

It was for the safety of the children,” Lt. David Young with the Lufkin Police Department told the Lufkin Daily News.

Ice Cream Demon...on the loose!

Sploid reports from a small town deep in the dry, shrivelled heart of Texas, where the children cry tears of dust.

The ice cream man is gone. Forever.

Unlike most kids, those in Lufkin won’t have their summer daze interrupted by the faraway ringing that signals the approach of cool refreshment.

No, the city elders have decided it’s best if the ice cream man not round these parts any longer.

Young says the law was passed several years ago to stop children from running into the street and getting hit by a car. He makes no mention of it ever happening, only the ever-present danger.

No word on whether or not he’s stopped children from running into the street, or actual cars hitting them. But the half-ton slab-sided gaudy monstrosity painted with Day-Glo cartoon characters, moving at five miles per hour and playing Turkey in the Straw at 80db, nope, no kids kilt by them since the ban went in.

Nor by no dragons neither.

“I remember the ice cream truck when I was young,” Ibarra said. “It’s something I wanted to do for the community.”

So Ibarra bought himself an ice cream truck, got a vendor’s license from the county and started making 240-mile round trips to Houston for supplies.

Sadly, no one at the county office warned Ibarra that Lufkin was the only town in Angelina County where the ice cream man was not welcome. It wasn’t until a member of Lufkin’s finest pulled him over that Ibarra learned about city ordinance 97.03.

The law states “It shall be unlawful for any person … to sell … commodities or any goods or merchandise upon any part of the public streets or public squares of the city, including the sidewalks thereof.”

Texas in July is a sweltering nightmare. Ice Cream TruckOn Tuesday the mercury hit 101. The forecast calls for more of the same tomorrow. The kids in Lufkin have already had the cannonball taken away from them. Now the ice cream man’s gone, too. It’s gonna be a long, hot summer.

Baked Lobster Caught!

Psychadelic Lobster, Carlin CarlinusHalf-baked, anyway. I suggest a scientific name Carlin Cheechinigus, but that’s subject to (dis-) approval.

This hallucinogenic beauty was caught off the coast of Maine, so the possibility exists that he was just on his way back from a wild party on the Gaspe, which would explain why he still looks half-baked.

Although it no doubt has an ironclad alibi. It’s underage, too, as are some of its most vociferous fans. Here is the report from the Bangor newspaper:

“Dude, it’s half orange and half, like, regular color for a lobster,” exclaimed Alyssa Bonin, 12, of Webster, Mass.

Sharp eyes there, Alyssa. Maybe a little bloodshot from the sounds of things, but still, sharp.

Mills intends to keep the two-toned lobster over the winter and have him on display for educational purposes, though he has no plans to name him.

“Lobsters are interesting but not personable,” he said.

We at the raincoaster blog beg, of course, to differ. Even our on the one hand shall not know what our on the other hand is doing

The rare 1-pound crustacean, caught earlier this week in Steuben, is a genetic mutation with a two-toned shell.

One side is the usual mottled dark green. The other side is the orange-red shade of a lobster that’s already spent some time in the hot pot.

The odds of this kind of mutation occurring are very rare – something like one in 50 million to 100 million, according to oceanarium staff. The chance of finding a blue lobster is far more common, at one in a million.

“Isn’t he pretty?” Bette Spurling of Southwest Harbor cooed Thursday as she stroked the lobster’s shell to calm him down.

Now that is the proper way to treat an addled celebrity. Not at all the way Jon Stewart did with the poor, hapless and handsome Butterscotch Stallion here (heartlessly stolen from Defamer):