Sunday, April 30, 2006

Nessie and Ogopogo

As regards the stories that even predate the Internet, telling of huge underground tunnels connecting all of the mysterious 'monster' lakes of the world, this true tale may be of interest: Angus “Blackie” MacAdder was the water speed record holder for 1929, 1930, and 1932. In 1933 his record was broken by Wallace “Stubby” Pequre, out of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, USA. Angus, and his mechanical engineering team worked like crazy, and in September of 1934 they wheeled out the Haggis/Torque 150. A month later, on October 7, 1934, Angus had his boat rumbling away on the still, dark waters of Loch Ness in Scotland. Loch Ness had been chosen as the speed site because the lake is long and fairly narrow, and there was at the time very little boat traffic. Angus took the Haggis/Torque 150 out to the far end of the speed track, and at the green light began his run. Official reports have his boat doing 45 MPH as he passed the first marker, and still accelerating. “Stubby’s” record was 47.8 MPH, and it looked as if Angus was going to beat it easily. As he neared the second, and final marker, observers along the shore noticed a low, dark shape in the water, right in Angus’s path. There was no way to let Angus know what was ahead, and the Haggis/Torque 150 hit the object at an estimated 49.3 MPH. The boat disintegrated, leaving a thrashing, snake-like thing in the water behind. The thrashing lasted less than thirty seconds, then the object submerged, disappearing into the murky water. Hull fragments, engine parts, and monster chunks were spread out over quite an area, but Angus’s body couldn’t be found. Eight months later it was found on the shore of Okanagan Lake, in British Columbia, Canada, half way around the world from where he had died (Okanagan Lake is the home of Ogopogo). Isn’t that weird? There is actual film footage of Angus’s boat hitting the object in the water on that day so I’m probably not making this up.

The Mice And The Town

Hey; There have been comments regarding a couple of things I have posted claiming that I appear to ‘get into it’ a little too much whenever I whack a mouse. Comments such as ‘mouse killer’ and ‘gangsta’ have been tossed in my direction and while they are technically correct I am finding this pro-mouse bias a little disturbing. It’s sort of like hearing a United Station right-wing political commentator mention that al-Qaeda is just a bunch of fun loving guys, or perhaps seeing archival footage of old Winnie Churchill praising Hitler as a jolly good fellow (here’s a bit of history: That bastard Hitler was a big fan of mice and supported mouse policies throughout his entire career. In his huge house at Berchtesgaden {near Obersaltzberg} he had what he called ‘die Mausenroom’, which was a room totally dedicated to mice and mice luxury. Granted this is all terrible information but one must remember that Hitler was a real jerk).

The following is a little folk tale about mice and their sneaky ways, and I hear that it is based on a true story!

The Mice And The Town

It had been an extremely difficult autumn for the orphans who lived at the Home For Exceptionally Cute And Precocious Orphans, and indeed for the entire town. The trouble had begun in September when the head of the religious order that had managed and staffed the orphanage, Primate Richard Halversham, had died in a mysterious knitting accident. Less than a week later there was an unexpected incident at the town bank, the Limbaugh Savings and Loan, whereby all financial records of the orphanage disappeared, including account records and proofs of power of attorney. Unfortunately nothing of this was discovered until mid-November, when the soon due land tax statements were sent out, and it was discovered that the orphanage was, apparently, flat broke.

As we all know, in these modern times the Government administered financial theocracies (using the IRS [USA], the Ministry of Finance [Canada], the International Institute of Money Worshipping Gonads {IIMWG} [International], the Federal Liberal Party [Canada], or the Republican Party [USA} as examples) manage all of their regular transactions with computers thereby completely eliminating the ridiculously quaint and old fashioned idea of personal service. Unfortunately in this case a pre-determinant program, which due to the incident at the Limbaugh Savings and Loan was unaware of the actual solvency of the orphanage, automatically issued a sale order for the orphanage property and all buildings due to non-payment of taxes. Notification was sent by registered post to the orphanage staff who couldn’t believe what they were reading.

The following morning two of the Nuns that managed the affairs as well as taught at the orphanage went to the bank to try to straighten things out. The bank manager, Mr. Rush O’Reilly, was sympathetic but unfortunately his hands were tied. The bank records showed no account in the orphanage’s name and in fact a provisional bid had already been received and accepted for the orphanage. He had no choice in the matter but unless the outstanding land taxes were paid the orphans would be tossed out and the property sold. Who had put the accepted bid on the property the Nuns wondered and while it may have been slightly (or even wholly) unethical the bank manager told them it had been Robert O Dent, a reclusive multi-millionaire from out of town.

The only bright side that the Nuns could see was that they did have two weeks to come up with the tax money and so they set to their mission with a will (as Nuns so often do). Several of the cuter orphans were set to work practicing a holiday play and the Nuns themselves spent every free moment baking pies and cookies and knitting up cool little crafty items that they could sell. The remaining orphans who were perhaps not quite so cute or precocious were given a bunch of ribbon, reeds, glitter glue and other stuff with which to create cunning Christmas ornaments. In short, everybody in the orphanage was working for their future and as they had the power of good and right behind them it was only ten days later that the Orphanage Holiday Pageant was presented to the town.

Everybody who attended, and that was most of the folks in town, really enjoyed the show (a non-denominational musical play guarantied not to offend anyone) and many a comment was passed on how cute and precocious the performing orphans had been. The donation pots were filled to overflowing with pennies and nickels and all the baked goods and craft items sold, for although the prices were a bit high nobody complained much because it was all for a good cause.

When all was said and done the orphanage had managed to raise over three thousand dollars. The Nuns and the orphans were ecstatic. Now everything would be just fine.

Early the morning following the pageant the same two Nuns showed up at the bank with all the money they had collected which had been rolled and folded by the adorably excited orphans. The manager of the bank welcomed them in and personally took charge of their tax payment. The money was handed over and duly counted, and then the bank manager said, “This is excellent. You are well on your way. There is only $130,819.60 due and you have three days to get it.”

The Nuns were in shock. Oddly enough they had had no idea that the total tax bill had been that high. Mind you that shock was nothing compared to the complete and utter astonishment they felt three days later when they and the orphans were unceremoniously tossed out into the snow, just in time for the Christmas season.

The new owner of the orphanage property, Mister Robert O Dent and the corporation he was CEO of, Cheezedammet Inc., rapidly turned the former orphanage into a state of the art luxury casino which was just chock full of all the latest devices for separating suckers from their money. Also, in an apparent effort to smooth over any rough feelings they even offered some of the Nuns (as well as some of the older orphans) employment in some of the new drinking establishments as exotic dancers or escorts (to their credit some of the Nuns turned this offer down).

With great fanfare the casino opened just before Christmas that year and in no time at all money was being pulled in hand over fist. It was all rosy at first with the townsfolk having a shiny new diversion to take their minds off the ugliness of real life (such as the sight of orphans selling their bodies so they could buy food to eat and ratty cardboard boxes to live in). However it wasn’t too long before an unforeseen situation arose.

Discretionary income soon began to dry up in the town as good money was thrown after more good money at the casino. Local businesses that depended on the Christmas season to carry them through the rest of the year began to suffer and then things took a real turn for the worst when the town manager drained the town accounts in one hugely wild weekend of Keno, scratch tickets and escorts. Sure, he lost his job but the damage was done. Here it was, early January, and the town was flat broke completely unable to pay it’s many employees. The municipal infrastructure quickly began to fall apart as more and more town employees refused to work unless paid. It wasn’t long before crime was rampant and the streets were clogged with piles of rotting garbage that nobody would pick up and deliver to the now unmanned landfill.

It was at this point that the mice began to move in. The slowly fermenting garbage provided food for the rodent invasion and the homeless orphans and Nuns, huddled shivering in doorways and abandoned businesses, provided warmth. It wasn’t long before the townsfolk were knee deep in mice, the business climate was in the toilet and civil unrest if not outright insurrection was just around the corner. Vibe-wise, it was ugly.

Now to the casual eye this would appear to be merely an extreme example of capitalism run riot. The truth however is quite a bit more disturbing than just being a tale of unbridled greed. The truth is an example of deviousness and subtlety that should shock and awe any and all who believe mice to be inoffensive little creatures as constantly presented by the traditional media rather than the little monsters that they actually are.

The truth is that Robert O Dent, the CEO of Cheezedammet Inc., is not as the popular press would have it a reclusive multi-millionaire who lives in all the fashionable capitals of the world. In fact Robert O Dent isn’t even human! He is actually (brace yourself) a mouse! R O Dent and his pawpicked cabal of mice who call themselves the Cheezedammet Posse took it upon themselves to trash a nice little town thereby creating the conditions of squalor and filth that mice so enjoy when they can’t manage to get into somebody’s nice house and ruin stuff.

Perhaps this is not a typical tale but we should all be aware that this sort of thing goes on all the time. Dig it.
Yours in vigilance; Humouroceros

Saturday, April 29, 2006

The Hawk And The Crows

Got up, did breakfast (with the usual hand full of supplements) then walked down to the gym for another morning of self abuse (AKA: self improvement.) Did my bit for my heart and general health and then on the way home I stopped at my favorite coffee bistro for a quick, large, strong cup of joe. I sat outside because the weather was just so darn fine that to sit inside would have been a sin. I pulled out my pad of paper and sat quietly, waiting for the muse to strike (yo, pretentious, no?) when I heard a bunch of noise, skywards.

Up over the city was a hawk being harassed by a couple of crows. The hawk didn’t really seem too bothered by the situation (the crows were making all the noise) but the pests were being unrelenting. The hawk was gently soaring along as the crows took turns stooping on him, and then one of the crows got bored and flew off leaving it’s buddy to carry on the hawk harassment, and I began to wonder why that hawk didn’t go hardcore all over that lone remaining crow.

As a rough guesstimate I figured it would take that hawk about two seconds to turn that crow into a feathered bag of cooling meat, but he didn’t. That hawk just slowly flew off, searching for a crow-free area to call it’s own and once again I have to wonder. Could we as people possibly learn something about how to treat one another from that hawk? Probably not. I’d have turfed that crow and been all the happier for it.

Anyway… Humouroceros

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

A Voyage On A BC Ferry

The little old guy was trying to get his point across to the ferry worker, but he didn’t appear to be having much success. “They’re running around like they own the place!” he yelled, as his arms waved over his head. “And some of them appear to be big. Big like foot-ball players or something! And,” he leaned forward, “I heard two of them planning to go outside and have a smoke!” The old guy waggled his eyebrows to add emphasis to that last statement.

The ferry worker nodded thoughtfully, idly scratching at his eye patch with a needle sharp dagger. “Ahr,” he answered, “but you see, they are foot-ball players. Young men of the Coast League y’see. Just played in a tournament these past few days, and acquitted theyselves well I hear tell.” He paused for a moment and tossed a small chunk of pre-chewed hard-tack to the parrot on his shoulder. “Ahr. I’ll tell ye this old man. If you’re sure of what you’re about, I’ll bring what ye say to the Captain’s mind, but be ye warned. The Captain’s oldest lad is a player in this very same Coast League, and if it should come into his mind that ye be casting dispersions on the lads, well...” The ferry worker paused again, this time to noisily suck air through the gaps in his mouth where there had used to be teeth. “The Captain is reckoned by many to be the most savage and bloodthirsty soul to ever command a ship in the BC Ferry Corporation. The Terror of The Inner Passage they call him. Ahr, I’ll take your message to Captain ‘Rip Their Guts Out And Eat Them’ Smythe, and you be off to let your next of kin know where they can go to pick up the pieces!”

“But you will let tell him though, right?” the old man persisted.

“Ahr.” answered the ferry worker, before spinning on his peg leg and thumping off towards the bridge.

It is unknown whether the message was ever passed on to the Captain, but the young foot-ballers did become rowdier and louder. Several were playing video games or listening to music on their boom boxes. Others roamed the ferry clearing their throats at every opportunity. Finally some of the boys crossed a line that even Captain Smythe couldn’t ignore. Somehow or other they had disrupted the ship’s operation.

The story never became clear to the paying passengers (although there were rumours that pickles and bathroom tissue were involved), but it wasn’t too long before the foot-ballers and their coaches were all gathered together in the ferry’s main lounge. They were surrounded by the scurvyest bunch of BC ferry workers that one could ever imagine, every one of whom was “Ahr”ing and shaking their parrots at the boys for all they were worth.

The foot-ballers looked terrified, but apparently they had prepared for a situation such as this. The boys formed themselves into a choir formation, shorter boys in the front with the taller boys behind. They then broke into song. They began with ‘The Ferryman’s Lament’, followed by ‘My Parrot Flew Away’, ‘The Anchor Falls’ and ‘The Skull And Cross Bones Jig’. They finished up with the spiritual ‘From Tsawwassen To Duke Point’, and as their voices faded at the end all that could be heard in the lounge was the sobbing of the ferry workers and the muffled squawks as their parrots wiped their noses.

At the back of the room there stood a giant dressed in the distinctive garb of a Captain of a ship in the BC Ferry Corporation. A full seven feet he stood, with a parrot on each shoulder, three peg legs and two eye patches. It was Captain Smythe himself, and a tear was carefully weaving it’s way down his heavily scarred and grizzled face.

He spit out a blackened tooth as he slowly surveyed the quiet foot-ballers. “Ye lads sing as the angels themselves would if they but knew the words.” he rumbled. “Even we who are the damned can appreciate that. Ye’ve won yerselves a pardon lads, now get off my ship!”

The boys whooped and hollered as they bounded down to the car decks. Captain Smythe, the terror of the inner passage, watched as they left, his face impassive and grim. Then with a final “Ahr”, he turned and stumped back to the bridge of his ship to prepare for yet another voyage.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

The Über-mouse

The über-mouse is dead. We, as a family, considered him a worthy adversary, being brave, cagey, resourceful, all of those attributes one so looks for in a foe. But I should probably start at the beginning.
It was a couple of weeks back when I first saw that little bundle of speed and intelligence as he tore across our laundry room floor, diving in behind the totes where we keep our Christmas decorations. No problem, I figured. I grabbed a trap (a Rodent-Snap 2000), primed it up with some peanut-butter, and set it behind the dryer. A couple of days later the trap was still there, unsprung and peanut-butter free. Apparently the little mutt had licked the peanut-butter without getting his tongue caught. Not bad, I said to myself as I re-primed the trap, this time using a small bit of partially cooked bacon.
That trap sat there for several days, bacon untouched, and in the meantime we saw the little thug in our downstairs living area, in our cold-room, and in the laundry room. I pulled two more traps from the safety locker and primed them with bacon as well. One trap I placed behind the entertainment center (or ‘wall unit’ since it’s big enough to be a wall), and the other trap went behind our freezer (or ‘freezer’ since we use it to freeze stuff). Once again we began to wait.
And a wait it was, boys, I kid you not. Yet the traps would still mysteriously either remain untouched, or the bait would disappear with the traps unsprung. It was during these trying times that we came to understand what we were dealing with here. This was no garden variety mouse, but rather something a little special. It all came to a head one morning when I was home alone following a graveyard shift. I was downstairs watching a DVD before going to bed when a few minutes into ‘Dirty French Debutants Go To Church’ I heard the trap behind the freezer snap. Yo ho, I figured, got ‘im! I was going to give the little beggar a couple of minutes to cool off then I was going to give him a nice burial at sea (or ‘at toilet’). However, when I finally got over there, there was no rapidly chilling mouse corpse, nor was there a trap. I searched all around but the little creep had stolen my Rodent-Snap 2000. Go figure.
That afternoon I told my wife what had happened so she went to scout the area out. She did find the trap but it was about eight feet (two and a half meters, give or take) from where I had set it. It was at that point that we knew, we had an über-mouse in our house.
We combed the basement from end to end and side to side and discovered that a sack of birdseed in the cold room had a tiny hole gnawed in it and there was a substantial pile of carelessly discarded shells scattered around. I took the sack outside and emptied it into the birdfeeders, but rather than cleaning up the shells I took the trap that had been set up behind the freezer, re-primed it with peanut-butter and set it in the shells. The next day the peanut-butter was gone, the trap (typically) unsprung. I reloaded with bacon covered in peanut-butter. First the über-mouse licked off the peanut-butter, then he took the bacon, and the trap was still unsprung.
I got my oldest boy to clear up the shells, then I re-primed all the traps and once again prepared to wait. My thought was that with his primary source of food (the seed) gone, he would be forced into a potentially rash action that could only spell lights out for the little brute. Well it took a few days but it worked and we nailed him. I believe that with the lack of food his physical reactions were off and when he went for that last bit of peanut-butter crusted bacon, he zigged when he should have zagged and straight to mouse heaven he went. Über-mouse RIP, Boxing Day, 200x AD.
You would think that would be the end of the story, but no. Boxing Day evening my boys and I are watching ‘Best In Show’ on CBC, the now unneeded mouse traps have been cleaned and are now sitting on top of the freezer waiting to be put back into the safety locker. Then we heard one of the traps go off, and I even saw it flip into the air. Cool, I thought, but here’s the deal. I had been about to put the traps away so they were all in the ‘safety’ or ‘disengaged’ or ‘not set’ positions, in other words, they were all snapped! So how did this one manage to go off so violently that it flew into the air? My youngest son figured he had the answer when he hissed, “Ghost of the über-mouse.”
Weird, huh? Hope you all are doing well.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Bird Flu

As I recall it was the summer of 2005 and concerns of a possible Bird Flu pandemic were all the rage. Top name celebrities were in the news day and night discussing the latest Bird Flu rumors and giving their opinions on pandemics in general. Even the Ministry of the Environment, a militantly non-celebrity infested institution, had got in on the act and released a press notice stating that all dead wild birds were to be preserved so they could be tested for the Bird Flu. A 1-800 number was set up and once called the Ministry would send somebody to pick up the dead bird. Sweet.

I was out front of my place enjoying a good book and a great coffee when the morning silence was broken by the thud of a Subaru smoking a low flying crow. The bird piled into my front lawn where it flopped around on the grass for a couple of seconds before it’s feathered soul bugged out for parts unknown and I was left with a defunct crow decorating the yard. My first thought was that, as a good Canadian, I ought to share the wealth by tossing the little beggar into the neighbours yard but it was only moments before I noticed that my neighbour was out in his own front yard and he was eyeing me and the crow suspiciously. I reverted seamlessly to plan B and gave the Ministry a call, reporting the dead bird and thus doing my bit for Bird Flu early detection (you could say I was killing two birds with one stone, but I wouldn’t.)

The young fellow I spoke to was as bilingually helpful as he could be, but as things stood an investigator wouldn’t be able to get out to my place for a week or so. Would it be possible, he wondered, for me to double wrap the little mutt in plastic and maybe store it in my freezer until and investigator could arrive? Once again, as a good Canadian, I consider it my duty to lie to government officials, no matter how low rank, as often as possible so I agreed that this was a sound plan and wished the young fellow a good day. I then stuffed the corpse into a couple of garbage bags, but rather than taking up valuable freezer space I tossed the bird filled bags next to a retaining wall we have that has a nice southern exposure and all the sun you could want. One of the many nice things about living here is the virtual certainty of 35 – 40 degree Celsius weather we tend to have every day in July. I figured this would broil up the bird in no time.

A week later as I was soaking up the afternoon sun as well as a tall ginger ale a small white truck pulled into the yard. It had a Ministry of the Environment crest on it’s door and a hot little blond behind the wheel. She became even hotter as she stepped from the vehicle displaying a nicely filled MotE pair of shorts and an equally nicely filled MotE tank-top over which she was wearing a white nylon windbreaker with the logo of the Bird Flu Crü (the unofficial name of the Bird Flu Pandemic Investigation Squad) which had the name divided into rockers above and below a drawing of a dodo bird with an ice pack on it’s head and a thermometer in it’s mouth.

I tugged my fingers through my hair, giving it that rugged look that the chicks go for as she sashayed over to where I was standing. “You’re the buddy that reported a dead bird?” she asked. “I am that,” I replied. She nodded thoughtfully, the sunlight glinting off her hot pink aviator shades. “Could I see the bird in question?” she asked. “Sure,” I replied wittily before trotting off to get my rapidly dissolving crow. I handed her the bag hanging from the end of a busted shovel handle. She looked puzzled as she took it, finally asking, “Is your freezer working?” “Sure,” I said, and she shrugged and then gently tote the bag open.
Apparently that crow was in some sort of condition because once she got a look, and a smell, inside that bag she hurled like there was no tomorrow. It was pretty nasty but I figured she probably felt a lot better once all that was out of her. I did feel kind of mean when I told her she couldn’t go into the house to clean up but as a practical matter I usually don’t want puke crusted chicks wandering through my home (actually this is more a guideline rather than a hard and fast rule, but even guidelines should be followed sometimes.) I did get to hose her down on the front lawn though and that was kind of cool. It’s like my fellow traveler H. Rollins says, you’ve got to grab your kicks whenever you can because you never know when something like, say, the Bird Flu is going to come along and mess things up.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Ice The Mice

The most recent mouse cull has entered an exciting new phase which, using the random code name generator online at, I have chosen to call Operation Ice The Mice (this should not be confused with last years Operation Mouse Roust, which wasn’t quite the success I had anticipated. As you all will recall Operation Mouse Roust involved tacking mouse heads to Popsicle sticks and placing them in the backyard as warnings to any other possible rodent interlopers. I had failed to take into account the fact that your average mouse will chow down on his best buddy at the drop of a hat if his best buddy drops his guard for only a second. Apparently the ‘head on a Popsicle stick’ display merely looked like a menu to your average mouse. “Mouse on a stick served here” indeed. Live and learn, as Homer Simpson says).
The strategy for Ice The Mice came when we tallied up how many mice we have been nailing every week. The cull has been pretty successful, numbers-wise, which sort of also points our where we’re not doing so hot, i.e.: keeping the little monsters out of the house in the first place. We may be thinning the herd a bit, but that don’t mean squat when it’s a really big herd to begin with.
Being the recycling types that we are it did seem to be kind of a shame to be shipping twenty plus defunct mouse bodies up to the landfill every week. The answer arrived in the mail last week (yup, that E-Bay is some handy). The Rovco Super Mouse-O-Matic ’04 is installed in our kitchen and our garbage is now completely mouse free.
Here is how this part of the plan works. First we catch the mice, then once the little corpse has cooled we fire up the Mouse-O-Matic ’04 using one of the preset rotor speeds and drop the little mutt in. In a thrice what was once a flea riddled bag of evilness is now a nice fresh mouse puree. Perfect for scooping onto some dry dog food and making your dogs some happy puppies.
The second part of the plan (and the more ‘subtle’, if you catch my drift) is that as our dogs romp around in our backyard, dropping their calling cards hither and yon, and farting like there’s no tomorrow, the scent of mostly digested mice will fill the air. Your average mouse does not mind chowing down on his best buddy, or even being chowed down upon (that being one of the prices of being a mouse), but they absolutely do not want to be eaten by a dog. The theory is that the commingled scent of mouse filled dog wafting about the property will convince the local rodent population to bugger off and stay there.
Further updates as they are warranted.Yours in vigilance: Humouroceros

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

DOA, Just good clean fun

Humouroceros & Randy Rampage

Did some punk rock a few weeks back when my favorite band, DOA, hit a nearby booze pit known as The Well for an evening of loud music and wild-eyed moshing. When I heard about the event I gave my good buddy and fellow traveler, Gordzillah, a call and after a day of strong coffee and energy drinks we slammed War On 45 into the CD player and whipped off to the Well to get in on the action.

There were two opening bands the first of which was called Whiskey Dick and believe me, their name which is as lame as a three legged horse race is nowhere near as lame as these four yahoos were. Terrible. Next up was a local outfit called All Night Long and those boys rocked the heck out! They were a blast and if I could have found a CD to buy I would have.

Then DOA hit the stage and I hit the pit (took a couple of elbows in the head but that’s just the way it goes sometimes.) Joey S. was his usual cordial self, telling crazy young folks to get off the stage (“start your own band if you want to be on stage” he advised), talking about politics and at one point lacing into some sort of Nazi creep who had slithered in from under a rock somewhere. Randy Rampage, DOA’s original bassist was along for the ride and spent the show tossing his bass around as he played and everything was held together by the rock steady beat of drummer, the Great Baldini. They played a great selection of tunes from their nearly thirty year history and the energy levels were high with the sweat flying and the beer fumes curling against the dark ceiling and the only bad part was that it was over too soon.

After the show my ears were ringing so hard I was dizzy but I grabbed a chance to talk with Randy Rampage for a bit and this was especially cool for me because way back in the day Randy was one of the bass players that I based my own bass playing on. Excellent. My ears were still ringing for a couple of days after. Good clean fun.

DOA rocks out

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Atlantis Found! (?)

I can’t remember where I found this and I suppose that anything’s possible in this crazy old world of ours:

In a satellite briefing this week, Professor Reihold Simpson of the Canadian Institute of the Theoretical Sciences (CITS) announced that the lost island of Atlantis has finally been found. Professor Simpson made this stunning and historic announcement direct from the site his team has been excavating approximately ten kilometers north of Franklin Station on the Antarctic Sub-continent. It is interesting to note that during the briefing the Professor would not refer to Franklin Station as Franklin Station but rather as ‘Aa-roo’roo-rah*roo’rah-rar’, which is the station’s original name in the native language of Atlantis

The institute has been excavating the site since early last year and in spite of the lack of evidence of a civilization of any kind ever having existed in the area Professor Simpson is hardly surprised. “You just have t look at all the snow and ice we have here,” he commented. “There is just tons of the stuff and to expect us to actually find any actual evidence that this is actually Atlantis is, frankly, unreasonable.” ‘Tooli’bahl-toolie*toolei’, as the ancient Atlanteans used to say.

The Professor went on to describe how his team had managed to crack the code describing the disappearance of Atlantis thousands of years ago. The only historical mention of Atlantis is by Plato in his writings entitled Timaeus and Critias. Plato describes a continent populated by an advanced civilization that lay just beyond the Pillars Of Hercules (the present day Strait Of Gibraltar). This island, he said, was destroyed by volcanoes and earthquakes, which caused it to sink into the sea. Over the centuries many have searched for this fabled land and many theories as to the continents location have been put forth. At various times Africa, South America, Cuba, and Australia have been ‘revealed’ as Atlantis, and in 1958 the Soviet Union claimed to have evidence that Atlantis had been a Soviet Collective and had existed in Siberia before sinking into the sea.

It was during an after hours affair at the CITS, organized by Professor Simpson, that one of his team pointed out that it was possible that there may have been some translation problems with Plato’s original writings, and Atlantis may not have sunk beneath the sea but rather it had sunk off the map. By way of illustration the team member took a roughly drawn map of the ocean we know as the Atlantic (but which the Atlanteans called, ‘Too’ree-roo Roo’ree*rooroo’), put a placemat on it and then held it up. Gravity called and the placemat slid off the map, falling to the ‘south’. As Professor Simpson said, it’s obvious once you think of it.

With this new evidence funding was secured from the Institute and the Professor and a small team of experts were soon in the Antarctic wastes where exciting discoveries were soon being made. “It was on our second day here,” Simpson recalls, “and my assistant, Burns, came to me with a startling observation. He pointed out that as we had been shoveling through the snow we had not found any evidence of lions or gazelles or any other native African animals. He felt that this proved that this continent formerly known as Atlantis had never been in Africa. Yet it could have come from near Europe where these animal were unknown thousands of years ago. We feel that this is a compelling argument for Antarctica actually being Atlantis.”

Further proof was discovered only a couple of days later when some of the team came across a colony of penguins. “That was particularly exciting,” commented Professor Simpson. “The sight of these little characters brought to my mind a theory I had developed while reading between the lines of Plato’s Atlantean reports. I believe that there was not one, but two highly advanced civilizations inhabiting Atlantis at the same time. These civilizations had a common science and their cultures were quite similar and they shared a language rich in words of beauty, art, magic and mathematics. Yet with all their learning these two civilizations were at odds with one another. The really exciting part is that one of these civilizations was called the Pen’guoo-roo(haha)*rin, and the other was called the Orca’rahroo*re’troo. If you look closely at modern Antarctica you see that the penguins natural enemy here is the Orca, or killer whale. Coincidence? I think not. It’s pretty obvious that the peoples of ancient Atlantis evolved into the penguins and orcas of today.”
Professor Simpson and his team continue their dig near the south pole but it would appear from the evidence that they have already found Atlantis. It is no longer a search but now an examination of an ancient civilization and it may be that this examination of the distant past will give us a better understanding of who we are today. As the Atlanteans used to say, “Tery ta’ploo ta tee’pla phloo.”

Monday, April 10, 2006

A Letter To Dave

Dave; So we hope that the whole hole thing worked out for you folks. That Don guy may be older than God and grandfather to thousands, but he does seem to know his way around a pipe-wrench so you should do okay. It’s friggin’ cold out and loose water is no joke under those circumstances. I myself am no fan of the cold, as you may know. In fact, if it weren’t for the spring, the summer, and the fall, I would be off like a shot! At first I thought that Cuba would be nice, but I would make (as if there is any other kind) a poor Communist (being capable of independent thought. This keeps me out of all the currently popular man-made religious sects as well. Bummer), and I don’t smoke cigars. I suppose I could move to that town Paul talks about in the States where by law you have to wear dark glasses and carry a concealed firearm at all times. My problem with that is I keep breaking or losing my sunglasses and the only firearm I have ever carried in my life was a lighter, and that was a couple of decades ago. I guess I could stuff a box-cutter into my sock but that would be uncomfortable and it probably wouldn’t count anyway. Heck with it, I’ll just stay here and tolerate the cold as best I can. To be honest, as much as I dislike the cold I have to admit that there are times of great beauty to be found when it is cold. Why just last night the little woman and I were watching out back where you could see where the mice had small fires burning here and there in the backyard. It looked almost as though a bunch of stars had fallen from the sky into our yard and were glittering in the snow. You could see the mice huddled around each fire trying to keep warm in the bitter cold and when we listened close we could hear them humming what sounded like Silent Night. It was real peaceful, you know? Then we let the dogs out and the fun really began. It was cool. See you next week: Humouroceros