Well after all that, Revver allows embedding. Too bad WordPress doesn’t allow it, or I’d post the “approved by producers” version here. All I can do instead is link to it on Raj’s blog here.
For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s a video by two mad scientist types (one is allegedly a mad lawyer/scientist!) of a frolicing fiesta of fountains of diet coke and mentos.
Enjoy. And if you figure out how to embed it in a wordpress blog, let me know.
From Fortean Times. I have friends who’ve been on the Atkins diet, megaprotein, zero carbs, avoid carrots and many other veggies, as they’re terribly starchy; each and every one of them swears it works. And each and every one of them is overweight. What do they teach them in school nowadays? (besides math)
June 28. Henry VIII, the king who destroyed the fabric of monastic England and most of its sacred shrines, was born today in 1491. It used to be thought that he died of syphilis, but it was malnutrition that did him in, according to historian Susan Maclean Kybett; specifically, he didn’t eat his greens. It seemed that scurvy, caused by vitamin C deficiency, is the only disease that fits his symptoms – ulcerated legs, bad breath, collapsed nose etc. There was a prejudice at the time that only lower orders ate vegetables; the rich could afford more exiting things like venison.
Thank god that particular fad is over. I’m a little tired of going to restaurants with people who smell like abatoirs and who insist on ordering three courses and then whining about how they can’t eat two of them.
On the bright side, I’ve much enjoyed the extra servings of dessert and even convinced one poor sap that Martinis are high in carbs…here, let me get rid of that so it doesn’t bother you. You can have the twist, though.
from Sploid.
A 25-year-old [Australian] woman was recently arrested for attempting to smuggle drugs into the country from Singapore by swallowing a mind-boggling 329 heroin-filled condoms.
Now, it says right there they were not just "containing" heroin, but were actually filled with the stuff. Let's think about that a moment, shall we?
Oh would it fucking kill you to play along?
So, they were condoms. And they were filled. I don't know (and wouldn't presume to guess) whether or not you're familiar with the usual dimensions of a filled condom, but it does take up a bit of volume, variable though it may be from iteration to iteration and even from moment to moment.
Now let's do the math.
As I recently completed, at the cost of three irrevocably spent months out of my life and, additionally, significant cost to the Canadian taxpayer, the JobSTART pre-employment training program, which is designed for those coming out of long-term prison sentences and aimed at helping them complete their high school equivalency (ours is not to reason why, because at Welfare they're not used to reason and it upsets them), I am all up on this math shit, yo.
The average condom-stuffing unit is six inches in length, and, for whites, one point five inches in diameter. This, however, is useless information because unless it was actually China White she was carrying, it was probably brown heroin, and as you can see from the reference page, Brown condom stuffers have an average length of between six point two six inches and eight inches, along with an average diameter of two inches.
If it was China White, of course, we would need further research to determine whether the Chinese (4-5" in length and 1.25" in diameter) or the White (5.5-6" in length and 1.5" in diameter) were dominant in this sample.
Assuming, then, that the sample in question was brown heroin, the average volume of the condoms in question was:
[8-(8-6.26)/2=8-1.74/2=8-0.87=7.13]x(pi)(rxr)
which is 7.13×3.14×1=22.3882
Twenty-two point three eight eight two cubic inches of brown heroin per condom is quite a mouthful. Let us hope they were the flavoured kind; they go down easier.
More math:
329 condoms x 22.3882 cubic inches = 7365.7178 total cubic inches, or about 19,000cc's of heroin.
That's larger than the Caribou 6000 expedition pack which, we note, features "An adjustable inside shelf helps to compartmentalize your packing" which would no doubt have come in handy, had the Aussie in question possessed a gastrointestinal system provided with such.
7500 cubic inches will cost you $110 to fire in the kiln here, although should you attempt to do so with heroin I would expect a few pointed questions and maybe a massive sugar craving. But it's better than patchouli!
It is also the size of the intimidating-looking Extended Mission Ruck. This damn thing looks like it was engineered so you could go over to Iraq and just scoop the insurgents, securing them safely in place with one of the eighteen billion, not at all fetishistic straps festooning this 100% Made In America monster.
To put things in perspective, 7500 cubic inches is the capacity of this Modular Hauler truck bed, the largest the company manufactures.
It is also, for our metric-savvy readers, approximately 19,000 cubic centimetres, which is the size of the engine used at KittyHawk.
Back then, 19,000cc's only sufficed to get one man 15 feet off the ground. Nowadays, it could provide decent highs for over 600!
Ah, progress!
I hate being sick. All the interesting shit in the world happens when I'm home, sick.
Proof: behold who Raj ran into on the last Vancouver Martini Tour. As for me, I was home in bed developing an intimate acquaintence with the Norwalk Virus.
Henry looks poleaxed in all probability because he knows I could not be there with him. Yeah, that's it.
Raj: Hey, would you kindly spit on my head?
Henry: What?
Well it's good to know that raincoaster wasn't the only one going a little wild on Tuesday.
The Shebeen Club benefit was a great time; Al Mader is a hoot and a great and generous performer, the food was excellent and plentiful, the help shushed the drunken Celts downstairs and kept the beverages flowing. Still, $17.50 is not much to show for a fundraiser, it must be said.
And it was said, repeatedly, by me as I went out afterwards to tire out my guilty conscience by taking it for a walk. I got a call from some friends who hadn't been able to make it, to meet them at Whineo's, a new bar on the Granville strip and, not being one to turn down free drinks, I did not, so over I went.
One Negroni and one Dirty L Martini were quickly added to my Shebeen-based glass of Merlot and pint of Strongbow. The bartender congratulated me on ordering the very first Negroni of the establishment, which wasn't really that much of an accomplishment as the place had only been open two days. Still.
Gotta luv a bar with good drinks and a Scooby Doo room.
Somewhere between the second and third olive of the Dirty L, Nina gets a brilliant idea to cheer me up and get me to stop diluting good gin with salty tears: she hands me twenty bucks for the TPaul benefit. Then, with pure evil genius, she turns to Raj and stares at him pointedly in a if you ever want to have sex with me again sort of way and Raj hands over a twenty as well.
Then we head back to the car. We do not get to the car, though. Not yet. We get out of the bar and take two steps down the sidewalk before Raj decides that Sanafir looks alarmingly dark. It looks, in fact, closed, it's so dark. Now, I think we all understand the help that dim lighting can give to certain chickens of the non-Spring-ular variety. Pam Anderson, ferinstance, should never go out in daylight at all, although she cannot appear in candlelight either, for fear parts of her will melt.
But this really was a bit beyond. On the upper floor there was some floodlighting of the ten-watt bulb with a three-dollar scarf thrown over it variety. On the ground floor there were no actual lights of any kind that I noticed. Sydney Smith, who said everything witty that Oscar and Dorothy didn't, was at a dinner party illuminated only by high wall sconces, and this was much like that. He found it was very much like being in Hell, actually, and said so to his diary, who told everyone. "Above there is a blaze of light, and below nothing but darkness and the gnashing of teeth."
Raj decided it was our duty as Vancouverites to check this out. I can now report that Sanafir, while dim, is not closed. If it appears to be closed when you walk by, rest assured it's just the management being discreet. Pound on the door till they let you in; they like that.
Sanafir count: three glasses of Dom Perignon, which we settled for after Nina put the kibosh on Raj's attempts to order the eight hundred dollar bottle of rose. Or the Krug I mentioned. We did get to look at it though.
Then we went to the car. That we could even find the car at this point is something of a miracle, but Raj was determined to get some work done and that meant ditching the chicks back on the East Side, so to the car we went. Nothing memorable about the drive except that the yellow line showed a surprising tendency to wander from one side of the car to the other and there was a skunk spotted. Hey, it's the Canadian version of "there goes Paris Hilton!"
Nina and I decided that what we really needed at that point was a drink, so we staggered over to Limerick, which is the only bar on the Downtown EastSide I will go into after midnight. After attempting to work and realizing he was better off drinking (who among us has not had that moment of pure insight, eh?) Raj joined us. Limerick count: two pints of Strongbow and a pepperoni stick and everything would have been fine if, with a half-pint left in my glass, the bartender hadn't told us we had five minutes to drink up and leave.
Now, I'm a writer. So it goes against every fibre of my being to leave behind a drink that someone else has paid for. So I looked at the half-pint of Strongbow and vowed inwardly that I would do it justice in the remaining three hundred seconds of bar time.
That's really all I remember.
