"Okay, here's the idea-- [deep voice] You wouldn't lie on your tax return... "
"Sorry mate, I don't think that's going to work. What else could we say?"
"How about: You wouldn't take office stationery home for personal use"
"But they would, wouldn't they? Any more?"
"You wouldn't - um - you wouldn't take illegal drugs for recreational purposes?"
"Not every day, at least. "
"We could turn it around, though: You would bend the law and commit minor infringements when you can't be bothered about morality, but don't do that with DVDs, ok?"
Showing posts with label parodies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parodies. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Rock band name generator
A few suggestions:NSFW
lol
redlink
TB:DR
H1N1
Cervarix
The Moat Cleaners
Edit war
Special guests
Huggahoody
Stealth tax
Troper
BLIX
e:zing
What the thunder said
.. or is that the new music stage line-up for Glastonbury 2010?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Martin Amis loses the plot
They'd like it, wouldn't they? All the hacks, with their jealous rants gabbling from the anaemic newsprint, queuing to take me down a peg, they can't wait to pronounce me finished, ficted out, my fictile member no longer potent. Hubricity is the media's ultimate crime- they try to push me from enfant terrible to evil uncle.
Things have changed, of course. Since the 70s, I have felt we were snatching the last few drags from the fag-end of history, puffing frantically before it is finally stubbed out. But, politicians, environmental disasters, wars, and greed notwithstanding, the End of the World has been postponed. My apocalyptic apothegms, my Millenium Buggery, seem quaint and dated. Life will, it seems, go on.
My interest in the wider world has shrunk, and I find myself drawn to that simulacrum of desire fulfilled, the pornography industry, and I study its ins and outs, ups and downs, its trades, its unions, its congresses. I am the mathematician of skin, a reckoner of the deviant algebra of addition, mutliplication, subtraction and division.
Maybe that's not very interesting to you: but would you really rather hear about my dental treatments?
Things have changed, of course. Since the 70s, I have felt we were snatching the last few drags from the fag-end of history, puffing frantically before it is finally stubbed out. But, politicians, environmental disasters, wars, and greed notwithstanding, the End of the World has been postponed. My apocalyptic apothegms, my Millenium Buggery, seem quaint and dated. Life will, it seems, go on.
My interest in the wider world has shrunk, and I find myself drawn to that simulacrum of desire fulfilled, the pornography industry, and I study its ins and outs, ups and downs, its trades, its unions, its congresses. I am the mathematician of skin, a reckoner of the deviant algebra of addition, mutliplication, subtraction and division.
Maybe that's not very interesting to you: but would you really rather hear about my dental treatments?
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Letter from Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen
From: Foxhill,
Combe Down,
Bath,
Somersetshire
1st March 1806
My dear Cassandra
I have, at length, received yr letter only this morning, tho' you sent it a se'ennight ago. The address was nigh obscured by your flurry of post-scripts! We return into Hampshire shortly, and I must beg you to prepare the house well, for you know our dear mama is susceptible to chills whene'er she travels and must needs spend the next days convalescing.
Last night we dined at Monkton Court, a short drive from our house here. We were welcomed by Mrs Dolphin (to whom we had been introduced at the Ball at the Assembly Rooms last week, as I did mention in my last); she was excessively pleased to see us, and thanked us for providing her with company. We shortly divined her meaning, as it became clear that Mr Dolphin, although courteous, maintained a silence as he sate, a book open upon his lap; he evidently considered that the exertion of having writ to invite us exhausted his duties as host, and had resolved to pass the evening without intercourse. This being so, we were thrown upon the resources of their son, Mr James Dolphin, a lively and boisterous young man, inordinately proud of his golden curls. With little preamble, he chose to entertain us at the pianoforte, through a demonstration of his skills upon the instrument. He introduced his performance with a short speech in praise of 'a simple air native to the locale , called "The Maid is gone a-Milking"'. Unfortunately, its frugality of melody was balanced by an excess of narrative; at the 16th reappearance of the refrain, I would have liked to appeal "Enough! The tune is simple to the point of imbecility!".
I kept my countenance, with some difficulty, and shortly after we went in to dine. Mr James showed me great attentions, but in such an extravagant manner that I found myself unable to consume even the small portions provided. He once spoke loftily of the virtues of good provender in forestalling melancholy, but made little conversation and less sense. I think he aspires to the state of Wit, but is as yet only half-way there.
After dinner, the cards were brought out, and we played at Cinque-et-un. Mr Dolphin condescended as far as to join the game, tho' he restricted his discourse to "One more"; "None"; and "All up". Shortly thereafter, Papa began fidgeting and muttering about the horses, and the carriage was called. In taking leave, Mrs Dolphin expressed herself desolate at our departure; the likely nature of their evenings when en famille is perhaps sufficient justification for her sorrow.
I must close, for the boy is ready to carry the post to Town. I will see you again shortly, and remain until then,
Your most affectionate sister
Jane
Combe Down,
Bath,
Somersetshire
1st March 1806
My dear Cassandra
I have, at length, received yr letter only this morning, tho' you sent it a se'ennight ago. The address was nigh obscured by your flurry of post-scripts! We return into Hampshire shortly, and I must beg you to prepare the house well, for you know our dear mama is susceptible to chills whene'er she travels and must needs spend the next days convalescing.
Last night we dined at Monkton Court, a short drive from our house here. We were welcomed by Mrs Dolphin (to whom we had been introduced at the Ball at the Assembly Rooms last week, as I did mention in my last); she was excessively pleased to see us, and thanked us for providing her with company. We shortly divined her meaning, as it became clear that Mr Dolphin, although courteous, maintained a silence as he sate, a book open upon his lap; he evidently considered that the exertion of having writ to invite us exhausted his duties as host, and had resolved to pass the evening without intercourse. This being so, we were thrown upon the resources of their son, Mr James Dolphin, a lively and boisterous young man, inordinately proud of his golden curls. With little preamble, he chose to entertain us at the pianoforte, through a demonstration of his skills upon the instrument. He introduced his performance with a short speech in praise of 'a simple air native to the locale , called "The Maid is gone a-Milking"'. Unfortunately, its frugality of melody was balanced by an excess of narrative; at the 16th reappearance of the refrain, I would have liked to appeal "Enough! The tune is simple to the point of imbecility!".
I kept my countenance, with some difficulty, and shortly after we went in to dine. Mr James showed me great attentions, but in such an extravagant manner that I found myself unable to consume even the small portions provided. He once spoke loftily of the virtues of good provender in forestalling melancholy, but made little conversation and less sense. I think he aspires to the state of Wit, but is as yet only half-way there.
After dinner, the cards were brought out, and we played at Cinque-et-un. Mr Dolphin condescended as far as to join the game, tho' he restricted his discourse to "One more"; "None"; and "All up". Shortly thereafter, Papa began fidgeting and muttering about the horses, and the carriage was called. In taking leave, Mrs Dolphin expressed herself desolate at our departure; the likely nature of their evenings when en famille is perhaps sufficient justification for her sorrow.
I must close, for the boy is ready to carry the post to Town. I will see you again shortly, and remain until then,
Your most affectionate sister
Jane
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Boswell's journal continued
Being an addition by Another Gentleman to James Boswell's celebrated Life of Johnson, in which is described a visit to Lichfield, with instances of the Doctor's wit and sagacity which arose in the course thereof
4th February
While travelling in the stage coach, I read from my newly-purchased volume of Chatterton, a fine edition, well-bound in leather. Johnson, having no high opinion of the poet, engaged in much raillery upon it. In traversing a hollow in the road, the coach caused an effulgence of liqueous mud to spatter the travellers, besmirching my volume. Upon my inquiring of Johnson, 'Have you a rag for my Chatterton?", he replied: "Indeed, it would be a fair swap!".
5th February
Breakfasted with Samuel in his room in the inn, whence he did spy from the window an old acquaintance. "See, there, across the street, on the bench outside the Queen's Head: the saintliest man in the county". Nay, said I, 'twas but a scoundrel, lost in drink. Samuel, crossly "You'll make a wager? For it is my old friend Jenkins, lately become Bishop of Lichfield". " Indeed I will", said I, "I will place 10 shillings upon it. Let us quiz him". Samuel then attempted to rise, but being then afflicted by the gout, cried with pain, and sayed: "You go, and determine the truth". So I crossed the street and approached the man, explaining my quest. He did reply in anger "Begone, knave; it is no business of you whether I am King of Prussia's pox doctor or the man who empties Lady Fairfax's pisspot!". I did return unto the breakfast room; Johnson asked "Well, Sir, was I not right?". I replied, "The wager is void- he would not answer me".
6th February
This day from Lichfield to visit the home of Thos. Wilcox, of whom Johnson did always speak with fond remembrance, their having been much in company when at school. Having set out in a hired gig, Johnson contrived to enter into a theological dispute with the driver, and ended by dismounting and sending him forth, shouting after the retreating vehicle "Look to your soul! The Lord saith time is short!".
He resolved to continue afoot, and after half a mile, he confessed to his ignorance of our situation and direction. Chancing upon a woodman, employed in laying the roadside hedge, Johnson addressed him, "Know you of Mr Wilcox, of Whitehouse Hall?" "Nay, I do not." "Well then, know you how distant is the next village?" "Nay, Sire, I do not." "What is it's name, at least?" "Alas, I do not know that, either." Johnson then raised his voice to exclaim "Sir, it appears that you know nothing!", whereon the woodman replied "Perhaps not, Sire, but then, I am not lost". This sally didst strike home, for Johnson did then laugh and seek forgiveness for his sharpness.
The gate to Whitehouse Hall lay, by good fortune, but a half league further, and we met Mr Wilcox with much delight. It appeared that his principal interest was in piscatorial matters, upon which he animadverted at great length, not content but he shew us first his rods, tackle, nets and lines, and then his various ponds and favourite stands along the river. I anticipated that Johnson would tire of this prattle and become restive, but he happily approved each hook and knot as tho' he was a keen fisher-man himself.
After a supper of fish, (of which Wilcox could not forebear to claim the credit of capture), he sent us back to town in his carriage. I asked Johnson his opinion of the sport, and he expostulated "If one wishes to catch fish, one should use a net, and have done with it". I voiced the objection that angling drew its challenge from the battle of wits between man and fish. Johnson, smiling: "I think that between Wilcox and a fish it would be called an even match".
7th February
This morning we walked around the cathedral close, calling Johnson unto many a sigh and shaking of the head. "You know", said he, "here I was content, and proud; for is not this the pleasantest spot upon Earth?" "Indeed", replied I, "but for my native Glasgow, although you seldom permit a word in its praise". He nodded at this rebuke, and moved on "Well, had I staid I would be but the best writer in Lichfield. The French have a saying, 'Every cockerel is king of his own dung-heap'. To test one's mettle one must seek one's peers so as to have a measure of one's success". "They say that native talent must be whetted to become a cutting blade". "For some, their mettle, once whetted, becomes rusted".
4th February
While travelling in the stage coach, I read from my newly-purchased volume of Chatterton, a fine edition, well-bound in leather. Johnson, having no high opinion of the poet, engaged in much raillery upon it. In traversing a hollow in the road, the coach caused an effulgence of liqueous mud to spatter the travellers, besmirching my volume. Upon my inquiring of Johnson, 'Have you a rag for my Chatterton?", he replied: "Indeed, it would be a fair swap!".
5th February
Breakfasted with Samuel in his room in the inn, whence he did spy from the window an old acquaintance. "See, there, across the street, on the bench outside the Queen's Head: the saintliest man in the county". Nay, said I, 'twas but a scoundrel, lost in drink. Samuel, crossly "You'll make a wager? For it is my old friend Jenkins, lately become Bishop of Lichfield". " Indeed I will", said I, "I will place 10 shillings upon it. Let us quiz him". Samuel then attempted to rise, but being then afflicted by the gout, cried with pain, and sayed: "You go, and determine the truth". So I crossed the street and approached the man, explaining my quest. He did reply in anger "Begone, knave; it is no business of you whether I am King of Prussia's pox doctor or the man who empties Lady Fairfax's pisspot!". I did return unto the breakfast room; Johnson asked "Well, Sir, was I not right?". I replied, "The wager is void- he would not answer me".
6th February
This day from Lichfield to visit the home of Thos. Wilcox, of whom Johnson did always speak with fond remembrance, their having been much in company when at school. Having set out in a hired gig, Johnson contrived to enter into a theological dispute with the driver, and ended by dismounting and sending him forth, shouting after the retreating vehicle "Look to your soul! The Lord saith time is short!".
He resolved to continue afoot, and after half a mile, he confessed to his ignorance of our situation and direction. Chancing upon a woodman, employed in laying the roadside hedge, Johnson addressed him, "Know you of Mr Wilcox, of Whitehouse Hall?" "Nay, I do not." "Well then, know you how distant is the next village?" "Nay, Sire, I do not." "What is it's name, at least?" "Alas, I do not know that, either." Johnson then raised his voice to exclaim "Sir, it appears that you know nothing!", whereon the woodman replied "Perhaps not, Sire, but then, I am not lost". This sally didst strike home, for Johnson did then laugh and seek forgiveness for his sharpness.
The gate to Whitehouse Hall lay, by good fortune, but a half league further, and we met Mr Wilcox with much delight. It appeared that his principal interest was in piscatorial matters, upon which he animadverted at great length, not content but he shew us first his rods, tackle, nets and lines, and then his various ponds and favourite stands along the river. I anticipated that Johnson would tire of this prattle and become restive, but he happily approved each hook and knot as tho' he was a keen fisher-man himself.
After a supper of fish, (of which Wilcox could not forebear to claim the credit of capture), he sent us back to town in his carriage. I asked Johnson his opinion of the sport, and he expostulated "If one wishes to catch fish, one should use a net, and have done with it". I voiced the objection that angling drew its challenge from the battle of wits between man and fish. Johnson, smiling: "I think that between Wilcox and a fish it would be called an even match".
7th February
This morning we walked around the cathedral close, calling Johnson unto many a sigh and shaking of the head. "You know", said he, "here I was content, and proud; for is not this the pleasantest spot upon Earth?" "Indeed", replied I, "but for my native Glasgow, although you seldom permit a word in its praise". He nodded at this rebuke, and moved on "Well, had I staid I would be but the best writer in Lichfield. The French have a saying, 'Every cockerel is king of his own dung-heap'. To test one's mettle one must seek one's peers so as to have a measure of one's success". "They say that native talent must be whetted to become a cutting blade". "For some, their mettle, once whetted, becomes rusted".
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Boswell's diary
Thurday Jan 3rd
The last night to Mrs Thrales, where the company did discourse upon two of our circle, the one infamous for his ill-favoured countenance, the other for his licentious acquaintance. Whereon one of the company didst enquire unto Johnson "Which of them merit the most censure?". "Sir!", he replied with a smile, "The first; a gentleman may chuse his friends, but cannot pick his nose".
The last night to Mrs Thrales, where the company did discourse upon two of our circle, the one infamous for his ill-favoured countenance, the other for his licentious acquaintance. Whereon one of the company didst enquire unto Johnson "Which of them merit the most censure?". "Sir!", he replied with a smile, "The first; a gentleman may chuse his friends, but cannot pick his nose".
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