Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Big Chopper
I'm so glad nobody has come back to me and asked why I was seeing a behavioral psychologist, that just means I'm doing a very good job of blending in.
One thing I forgot to mention about the celebrity retreat I stayed at in Belize was that security was pretty tight. Every other person was some guy dressed in a black suit, wearing sunglasses, talking to his wrist. You could hear them all over the place, they had codenames for everyone and they were constantly reporting on our movements. It was like an episode of The West Wing at times, with guys mumbling into their cuffs that "Stoner is in the Bush, repeat Stoner is in the Bush".
One other inconvenience was that as only guests of a mega rockstar we somehow didn't rate the laundry service and had to wash our own clothes and hang them up ourselves. The coast of Belize can be battered by some pretty brutal winds but even on a mild day things fell off the washing lines. Barely had I put the first item on the line than the wind caught it, whipped it up into the air and then just as brutally dragged it across the sandy ground.
All I could do was frown as a voice went out over the security radio announcing "We have a black sock down, I say again we have a black sock down."
The Lights Are On
Robert Palmer dies at age 54 of a heart attack.
Apparently as he keeled over clutching at his heart four women in tight black dresses did so in perfect synchronicity right behind him.
(No, I didn't like him as much as I liked my father Johnny Cash, how can you tell?)
Esprit d'escalier
I don't want to become too meta here but as Pix was reading my posts last night (tick "yes my partner reads my site when I harrass her about it") she wouldn't stop laughing out loud... some of you who read this site quite often and have come to understand my sense of humour might think there's nothing strange about that but let me tell you that making her laugh out loud after seven years of being together is pretty tough, she knows me almost too well now.
For example, a week or two ago, I went to the fridge and got a box of Tequila-centered chocolates. I opened the box standing on the far side of the coffee table from her and one of the chocolates dropped to the floor by accident. She asked for one. I offered her the fluffy one. She frowned and I picked another one out of the box, palmed it and handed her the fluffy one again thinking I was David Fucking Blaine. She looked at me and told me to give her the one that wasn't fluffy.
Where did I go wrong? The sleight of hand was flawless, there was no way for her to know that I had switched the chocolates, and yet... she knew somehow. Maybe I've spoiled my chances after my previous success. Maybe she can read my mind!
So anyway, last night she comes in from her Macromedia Suite 2004 presentation with the goody bag and everything and she's obviously had a glass of wine, so when she starts laughing out loud at my posts from yesterday (especially the Art of Making a Fucking Decision because that's been written specifically with her in mind) I say to her:
Perhaps you should have a glass of wine more often.
To which she replied: "Why, will it make you funnier?"
I had a good retort. I had... I had a very good... it was witty, oh how it was... Fine. I had diddly-squat. Oh shut up at the back and help me think of a comeback.
The Art of Making A Fucking Decision
With the return of Londonmark's default content Art of... series and the discovery of two previously unpublished articles The Art of Answering Loaded Questions and The Art of Washing Dishes, both of which have a strangely anti-male slant to them I myself have managed to uncover a third and potentially more controvertial one, I present: The Art Of Making A Fucking Decision
As Ferris Bueller once said "Life moves pretty fast" and it can be pretty tough to make the right choices at the right time, so for those women who tend to dither or flake at the wrong time here's a quick guide for when to zig and when to zag.
Short-term or snap decisions
Supposedly there is such a thing as female intuition, it doesn't seem to work in time sensitive cases however. It seems to work best when it comes to choosing shoes or determining just why he's been out all night and where he's actually been. But ask a woman if you're supposed to take a left or a right and she'll crumble like a hydroelectric dam made from Digestive biscuits. Female intuition is unaturally strong in cases of male guilt, but when all you want to know is what she wants for her birthday you'll be waiting a long time.
This is because a woman will never allow herself to be wrong. If she says left and the correct answer was right then she's convinced that she'll never hear the end of it. This is both a failing from the male side as from the female side. The man is unconsciously exerting pressure upon the woman just by asking and while she is considering the greater implications of a change of direction he is wishing he'd bought the in-car GPS system she'd told him he couldn't have because it was too lavish a gadget.
The failing on the man's part is that he has caved into the woman's guilt-trip that she can read a map despite generations of evidence to the contrary. Quick test: which way is north? Well done guys. Girls, better luck next time. The man is waiting for the woman to sign off on the decision with either left, right, or I don't know. He'll be waiting a long time for the third option though.
The midterm decision
This includes things like "what's for dinner", "where shall we go for dinner" and "well when can we have sex?". An acceptable amount of time to wait for these decisions is within the next three to five minutes, anything more than that and you risk the male attention-deficit disorder kicking in, otherwise known in these cases as "Pot noodle", "the local" or "masturbation". We want definitive decisions and we want them within the amount of time it takes us to think up the next question.
These don't require snap-decision skills or the longer female intuition skills, these require the cognitive functions to be applied to the various options, eliminating the unfavorable ones one at a time until you're left with either a short list or a single obvious answer: "Chicken or fish", "the Indian down the road, the posh French restaurant if you're feeling flush or the greasy spoon on the High Street if we're broke", "take me now!"
Unacceptable answers are "food", "out" and "you what?"
Long-term decisions
This is where women have the distinct advantage, men aren't even thinking about what they want to do beyond the next weekend, nevermind where they intent to retire to. Men need women to think that far ahead just as women need men to know when to turn left. In this area I cannot advise as I hadn't thought this far ahead when I sat down to type this out. These kind of decisions are as much a mystery to men as tectonic plate movements, and just as slow.
A woman can muse over where she wants to be in twenty years and make projections, she can feel the ticking of her biological clock throughout her body, a man wakes up one morning to discover he has grey pubic hair that he can't see over a beer belly that appeared "overnight" (man's term) but that the wife beside him has already planned the conservatory, the third kid's bedroom and the seaside retreat.
Long-term decisions need to remain the Stonehengian mystery to men that speeding train snap decisions are to women. Men should be permitted to drive the fucking car and have the GPS system installed as much as women should be entrusted with working out the pension plan and what area you should move to next.
Miscellaneous: the indefinite article
The scourge of any conversation is the indefinite decision, such as "perhaps", "maybe", "we'll see" or "that's always a possibility". These undermine your decisions and are obviously being employed as a global get-out-of-jail-free card for the sake of covering your ass when things invariably don't turn out as expected later. Be decisive, stand by your decision, trust in yourself, tell me when we can next have sex.
When You...
I was taught by a behavioral psychologist that the best way to defuse a tense argument was to employ the structure:
"When you (do something), I feel (insert emotions here), why don't we (proposal for solving problem)?"
So here're a few random examples of how that would work:
When you put crushed glass in my mashed potatos, rat poison in the gravy and serve me the flayed flesh from my own ass for dinner, I feel that you're possibly angry about something I might have done, why don't we sit down and talk about it... although I might prefer to stand.
When you threaten to cause a global outbreak of Ebola, I feel that you are being a drama queen, why don't we place a call to the UN to have them send some weapons inspectors out here to check your chemical processing facilities?
When you scream repeatedly, claw your eyelids to bloody pulps and cough up bile every time I mention marriage, I feel that you're not giving it the due consideration it deserves, why don't we start a White List?
Try it...
In-sewer-rats
I don't quite understand the idea behind life insurance. You want me to pay premiums, betting that I won't die, and if I do you'll pay out massive amounts of money to other people?
Why don't you reward me if I manage to live forever?
Healthy
I staggered into Benjy's on the way to work and picked up a 2 litre bottle of Evian and a yoghurt. The water was to rehydrate me and my hangover, the yoghurt was in case I was gonna bring anything I ate back up.
I peered through my dark glasses at the short eastern european girl behind the counter as she asked how I was before saying "You are very healthy young man". I could suddenly imagine that she was potentially the Black Widow of Belgrade, recently escaped to London to find herself the perfect mate and that she was grooming customers as prospective sperm donors whether they liked it or not. Over a period of days she was watching who bought what, what their diet was like, if they fitted the profile she was after she would pounce.
Or maybe I was just feeling hungover and paranoid.
I told her my next stop was for a bacon sandwich just to be safe.
Advanced Delusions and Daydreams
You know you're playing too many computer games when a papercut causes an imaginary "-2hp" to float in front of your eyes.
Should have picked up the armor I spotted in the street underneath that tree...
Celebrity Getaway
I left the Virgin Islands quietly by fishing boat, working as a deck hand to pay my way. Skippers are always keen to have another set of hands working the nets so they don't ask questions. Questions were being asked about my health and fitness qualifications that I couldn't answer.
Through a series of charters and fishing trips I worked my way through the islands and back to mainland, arriving in Belize. It was during a stop-over in the Turneffe islands that I first heard of The Complex.
My big break was when I worked a shark-diving charter for Mick Jagger. He came aboard with an obese ginger-haired roadie called Donald. The captain and I hauled the two of them out of the water when a lemon shark became a bit too interested in them and as thanks Mick suggested we head north to the Ambergris Cay. He directed us towards a sprawling collection of white-washed huts on stilts, surrounded by palmtrees.
"This mah friends, iz the Complex"
As guests of Mick we were entitled to the best of everything, but it didn't get any better than when Kate Moss came to stay for a week. Every morning the captain and I would be out on sun-loungers in time to see Kate come back from her morning swim. She'd undo her bikini and shower naked behind a screen on the decking that linked the various huts of the Complex.
Each day she'd wink at Mick and motion with her head for him to come over and wash her back. Each time the captain and I would watch in horror as the fat Scottish roadie would be sent over to do it instead. Worse still, the roadie would serenade Kate as he toweled her down, usually some piece of opera or Gilbert and Sullivan. It was always enough to make us look away.
After five mornings of watching this I finally had to ask the captain why Mick passed up the opportunity to soap Kate's lithe nimble body and why we would always sit there and watch despite the fact we knew what would happen. He simply sighed and said:
"My boy, a Rolling Stone lathers no Moss, but it ain't over 'til the fat roadie sings."
I Can Sing a Rainbow
We were lying on a blanket in Regent's park underneath a chestnut tree (crack, thunk, close one!) squirrel-watching, book-reading and occasionally tickling one another. I spotted a gathering of guys building portable goalposts, preparing for a game of football (soccer).
Look, pink and purple football strips.
"those are red and blue"
No, those are pink and purple. Look, the kid over there is wearing red...
"okay, then those are cerise and blue"
Cerise? You... you what? Cerise? That's not even a real color! They're pink!
"They're cerise. Cerise is a real color."
Now, am I wrong to think that an argument between a boy and a girl over the difference between pink and cerise is the very definition of futility? We then proceeded to point at things.
Blue
"Cyan"
Light Brown
"Taupe"
Green
"Emerald"
There was no headway to be made.
Red Tape
Underworld quick review:
Posh tart in tight catsuit swearing and shooting guns. Fucking ace.
Movie. Fucking awful.
I spent a good deal of the time listing the various pieces of hardware on show, muttering under my breath "Desert Eagle .50AE, H&K G36c, twin Beretta 92s, Glock 17 with extended mag, USP Match.... wait, did she fire 100 bullets or only the 18 the mag can hold at max capacity?" I never thought I'd see a film that would make Blade 2 look good. But really, who gives a shit? She was squeaking all over the place.
Got Stones?
The long review:
God damn can they fucking rock or what?!
The short review:
They rock!
The crowd was something like 75,000 filling up Twickenham stadium. I felt fortunate when Pix decided we had shit seats and dragged me down to the actual pitch. After a few minutes of fluttering her eyelashes the guys let us through and we rocked the rest of the concert away within a stone's throw of Mick and his crew. I hated myself for doing it but phoned up Karen's mobile and left her a live rendition of Satisfaction on her voicemail.
Interesting mix in the crowd. It was obviously a good night to be a babysitter in London.
The Book of Resistance
How does one fashion a book of resistance, a book of truth in an empire of falsehood, or a book of rectitude in an empire of vicious lies? How does one do this right in front of the enemy?
Not through the old-fashioned ways of writing while you're in the bathroom, but how does one do that in a truly future technological state? Is it possible for freedom and independence to arise in new ways under new conditions? That is, will new tyrannies abolish these protests? Or will there be new responses by the spirit that we can't anticipate?
Phil K. Dick, 1974
Paper, scissors, whatever
Otherwise know as "How to win all the time just by pointing your finger at whatever the other person comes up with"
One, two, three, go. My stick of dynamite blows up your rock.
One, two, three, go. My plasma lance cuts through your scissors.
One, two, three, go. My ICBM with thermonuclear warhead evaporates your paper.
I win.
The Famous Four in Berlin
Professor Hanson was being quite beastly to Jane when Dick's hand shot up amidst the sea of uniforms with a question.
"Sir, sir, I'd like to propose a class project sir."
"What did you have in mind Dick?" asked the professor, peering over his horn-rimmed spectacles and folding his arms in exasperation.
"Well sir, since this is Political Studies I was going to suggest that we make our end of term project the assassination of a major political figure." Dick slouched back in his chair then wedged his knees up against the underside of the desk.
"Very well Master Zucher, if you feel you're up to the challenge. Class, pay attention, before the end of this school term I want proposals from groups of no more than five of you to infiltrate Nazi Germany and assassinate a high-ranking officer or politician. Extra credit will be given for anyone capable of locating V2 launchers or impeding the efforts of Luftwaffe bomber command."
As if on cue the air raid siren went off and the students all headed down to the shelter in the basement for tea and biscuits. Dick was already focusing on the job in hand.
****
Jane loved Dick, Dick however was head over heels about Fanny who in turn quite fancied Gaylord. Gaylord was quite partial to Dick but realised that social status meant Jane was the right woman for him. The four of them had gathered together in Dick's hole to discuss their plans for eliminating Hitler himself. Dick had the biggest hole of the four of them and Gaylord was quite enjoying himself inside it. Fanny had been the one to suggest protection and a corrugated sheet of metal covered the hole to prevent enemy penetration.
"I think its simply too super a plan not to put into action."
"I agree Fanny, but I can't help thinking that demolishing the barracks is an added risk to the whole endeavor."
"Rather" concurred Gaylord as he tucked into Jane's pie.
"Oh try not to eat it all Gaylord" chidded Dick sorely.
"Don't worry Dick, there'll be sloppy seconds for anyone who wants them." reassured Jane.
Continue"The Famous Four in Berlin"
Pet Hate
How much is that doggie in the window? No, no, the one with the waggley tail. Look, I'm asking you how much is that doggie in the window? I do hope that doggie's for sale. I don't want a bunny or a kittie. No, I don't want a parrot that squalks, its dead anyway. I don't want a bowl of little fishies with six second attention spans. You can't take a goldfish for walks you stupid pet salesman.
Schizofrenetic
I work in internet advertising (but not in sales, I have my pride) so sometimes the spam merchant techniques to grab people's attention will perk my interest. We don't deal in spam, we're profitable.
My inbox was graced with an offer to sample the delights of split-personality sluts followed by a link that would most likely spawn a thousand pop-ups and sign me up for a subscription, but that got me thinking...
... split-personality sluts...
The poor man's threesome. Two for the price of one. Save money and space by having multiple girlfriends contained within the same body. You would of course have to get past certain problems, y'know cause not all the personalities would share the same tastes:
"Who are you?"
I'm your boyfriend, all your other selves have already met me.
"Oh, okay, lets have wild rambunctious sex in public places! / erk / Who are you?"
I'm your boyfriend, all your other selves have already met me.
"Oh, okay, take me now and make love to me in ways that will make animals jealous. / erk / Hoo da fook er yu?"
Just leaving. Bye bye.
Worse still, you could get a slut who was already other personalities. You can just imagine a date with Angelina/Delia/Georgia/John
"Here, draw the knife across my flesh and lick the trickle of blood away as you / erk / tenderise the breasts with a large metal mallet, rubbing salt in and seasoning with the herbs you mixed up earlier until you've / erk / just not understood a word that I've been saying have you, but then how could you, after all you're just a / erk / man, I love it when I get to be in control. Feel these tits man... you want a beer before we fuck?"
And all because the lady loves...
In the shadow of recent celebrity deaths such as Johnny Cash, John Ritter and celeb-by-proxy Yetunde Price sat the following obituary that I clipped from the local paper this morning.
Albert H. Collins, aged 65 years. Died in his North London flat and is survived by his daughter Christine and pet fish Bubbles. Albert is best remembered as the original "Milk Tray" man who shot to fame by performing a number of daring James Bond stunts to deliver boxes of chocolates to cosmopolitan women in exotic locations. In his final interview for the book Coke and Coke: Behind the Advertising (published by Gonadz) he wrote:
"Everyone thinks that stuff was a feeble attempt at cashing in on Bond's popularity, but I started off just dropping off the boxes on doorsteps. Then it was cross-town motorcycle delivery, and by the time we got to skydiving delivery I reckoned I was well in with the company. The black outfit was standard issue, and if I had to ski down a mountain to get to yon posh bird's alpine chalet then thats what was to be done, none of these nancy-boy chair-lifts for me.
I was trained by the paras, so it was easy to scale cliff faces and take on a few Italian heavies. I mean, its not like them snotty bitches could pop out to the shops and get their own chocolates, eh? Trapped in their baroque gothic mansions hewn out of the bare cliff faces. They relied on me and I had to deliver the goods. I once suggested that maybe the hero should at least get a quickie out of one of them stuck-up hoors but I was over-ruled and eventually replaced.
In advertising you have to stick to your guns, and if that means quitting over creative differences cause some trophy wife won't pucker up and do her best Hoover impression after you've strangled a shark, leapt off a moving truck and tumbled down a mountain to get her choccy treats to her in time for Coronation Street then so be it."
Albert will be missed.
No Man Is An Island
Eventually my days of working as a tour guide in the fertile mountains of Cuba came to an end and I had to move on. I wasn't exactly an enemy of the State but international relations were strained and foreigners were being encouraged to leave. I still have the scar.
I managed to hitch a ride on a short-haul cargo plane full of sugar heading down to Barbados but couldn't stand the whole flight in such cramped, however sweet, conditions. I thanked the pilot and left him during a refueling stop in the U.S. Virgin Islands, hoping to find temporary lodgings amongst the expat population.
After careful consideration it occured to me that what was missing from the tropical paradise beachfront world of Cruz Bay was a fitness instructor. I had some basic understandings of health and fitness techniques and quickly looked up some more advanced techniques I could teach easily. Within a week I was ready to give my first morning class.
Most of the residents were either too busy relaxing or too preoccupied with their lives to attend, but I did end up with one student who came back religiously, no matter what I had planned for the next day, whether it was yoga, aerobics, or even a brisk powerwalk along the white sandy beaches with the ocean lapping at our bare feet. We became so close that she invited me to stay with her in her small six-bedroom stucco villa.
I started to worry about her infatuation with fitness techniques though and was awoken one morning in the guest bedroom by a blood-curdling scream from the master bedroom. One of the maids was standing in the doorway, one hand covering her mouth and the other pointing at her mistress who was standing stock still in a perfectly symetrical position, her eyes glazed over and her abs perfectly toned.
"Ah yes," I muttered, heading back to my room to pack "I had forgotten about the curse of the pilates of the Caribbean"
Three Little Chicks
Typical of my luck, we get Pix's company's private box to ourselves at the Royal Albert Hall and somebody else decided to buy the other two tickets. There went my chance to get a shag in the Royal Albert Hall.
She got the expression she was so hoping to see about three quarters of an hour into the show. The lights dimmed, a spotlight came on, and the blonde one (there are three little chicks, Yum-Yum, Peep-Bo and Pitty-Sing, three little chicks from Texas are they) explained that they were inspired by a lot of bluegrass music.
I swear it was the female Alvin and the Chipmunks. Somebody was messing with those girl's microphones and playing them back at 45 rpm. Its small wonder that A.D.D. is so prevalent in the US with that sort of stuff being played.
The anti-war protester... no wait... he was pro-war... but a war-protester is anti-war... so does that make him an anti-anti-war protester? What if he hadn't been a he but had been my father's sister instead, she'd be an aunty anti-anti-war protester... what if she was covered in ants? It doesn't bear thinking. A bear would eat the ants.
Anyway, somebody who didn't quite agree with the Chick's pacifist stance tried to rush the stage and was knocked back. Not by a roadie, or a bouncer, but by a RAH usher. I mean, people, an usher? How lame is that? This is someone who is paid to show people to their clearly marked seats, one good sneeze could knock him down.
I tell you, the concert-goers of South Kensington are nothing like the rocker-goths I grew up with. Still, it beats having a warhawk aunt with a rash.
An unpleasant surprise (part 2)
Part 1 is here.
A good cliffhanger should always end on that freezeframe. That sudden pained expression where the hero realises just how dire his situation is.
When we last left our hero, he was standing jiggling the toilet handle, breathing through his mouth, trapped in an enclosed space with the walls closing in as the trash-compactor tentacle wrapped itself around his legs. Without the tentacle, that was just me being silly.
Add to this the realisation that the toilet cistern lid is bolted on and impossible to remove without at least a screwdriver. Screwdriver which would mean leaving the toilet to go and get and risk someone else stepping in to use the toilet.
They say a man controls his own destiny (who is 'they'? I don't know, its like telling people 'mommy always said it doesn't matter if you win or lose so long as you win' or 'daddy always said that if you play with it for long enough it'll fall to the floor' when they never said any such thing. Dyslexics would tell you than a nam coltrons his own density...) so I could either stand there and hope that some magical force would spirit the poo away or I could take affirmitive action... and cry.
Instead I unlocked the door, peeked outside, leapt outside when I saw the coast was clear and charged into the bedroom to my stash of tools. I was in such a panic that I didn't grab the super-duper-I'm-an-adult-electric-screwdriver, instead I grabbed the regular boring manual one, charged back to the toilet and gingerly stepped back in, locking the door behind me.
Man. Toilet. This was a duel eons in the making. Well... however long it took to domesticate man, and if you were to ask Pix she'd tell you I'm not fully domesticated yet anyway. So what if I chew the cushions?
Cistern unscrewed I saw the inner workings of the enemy. A poke here, a jab there and suddenly the bizarre piece of plastic that had wedged the ballcock in the upright position causing the cistern to not refill fell away and it filled up. A few seconds later and I'd flushed away all the horrible poo and screwed the cistern lid back on.
Only now, more than 24 hours later do I wonder how the hell that piece of plastic got in there to wedge the ballcock... and what it might have broken off in the first place.
I smell a sequel. Which is certainly better than smelling spicy poo.
Cheesy
It was as I was just closing the fridge door that I heard it, a tiny sneeze, coming from inside the fridge. I've had trouble with the fridge in the past so it wasn't too surprising.
I peered in and searched up and down across the shelves for the source of the sneeze, pausing for a moment to stare at a plate of smoked salmon in saran wrap. As I watched, the plate began to tremble. Under my intent stare the pink slice of salmon flesh finally expunged a gasp and screamed "it was the Camembert! the Camembert!"
For 24 hours solid I stared at that Camembert, I even sprinkled pepper on it in desperation. It didn't sneeze once.
Life Lesson
Life has a wonderful way of reminding you you're doing something wrong: pain.
Take for example our subject; D, 24 years old, male, makes a decent living, lives with his girlfriend, enjoys watching TV with snack food.
I don't mean that he sits on a couch with a bag of chips and asks if the bag of chips is enjoying the show. Or guffaws and points out the slapstick of Malcolm In The Middle to a jar of salsa. I mean he eats the snacks.
On the afternoon in question D had chosen one of his favorite snacks, pistachios. Now, here comes the science bit.
Next time, remember to shell the bastards instead of staying so intently focused on Homer and co. There was a crunch, there might have been a tiny drop of blood, there is definitely a tear in my gum. Just thinking about it still causes me to wince. But you can bet your ass I won't be doing that again anytime soon.
My Definition is This
a·cer·bia Pronunciation Key a·cer·bia (
sūr
b
-)
n.
- To be in a perpetual state of sourness or bitterness; to have an acidic temperament. See Synonyms at bitter.
- A city of southern California, a residential suburb of Los Angeles at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains. Population: 48,290.
[From Latin acerbus. See ak- in Indo-European Roots.]
a·cer·bic adj.
a·cer
bi·cal·ly adv.
An unpleasant surprise
What's the opposite of serendipity? I need an antonym for it, a way of describing a rather unfortunate concordance of events that leads to a horrible outcome rather than the pleasant coincidence that would normall befall.
For the purpose of this post and hopefully the further integration of the word "acerbia" into common parlance I will be using the word acerbendipity cause I swear this is constantly happening to me.
Here's a prime example of acerbendipity for you. It involves poo. Look away now if you are prissy or Anna Pickard.
I complained yesterday that Pix hadn't made her fabulous chili burritos in a while, normally I'm not overly fond of spicy food but Mexican holds a special place in my gut. I suspect I was savaged by a papadum as a child, probably shrapnel wounds. Its all just part of my murg-y past.
As usual I forgot to take my Ritalin with me to the store, so I got bored fast and rushed her and complained a lot. Outcome? She got a slightly spicier chili sauce than usual (unless this was actually a deliberate punishment, the jury is still out on that enjoying the free room service). Not one to complain when food is set down in front of me I voraciously gobbled the spicier than average chili burritos down. And I think we can all see that there's going to be a Johnny Cash reference in the next paragraph or two.
Sundays are sacred. On Sundays the pressure of the week are well and truly buried behind a thin wall of Saturdaydom. You wake up late, fuck hold hands in bed, and maybe around midday your belly goes "hey, I don't know about you, but I could do with getting rid of some of this stuff and make room for lunch". This is your final warning before I start talking about the sacred rituals of a man and his toilet.
Its no secret that sometimes a guy just wants some peace and quiet, a place to read a paper/book/the articles in Playboy (good, aren't they?) and let that Sunday stress relief do its thing. Well I sat on that cooling ring and it burned, burned, burned. The ring of fire, the ring of fire. And here's the moment of acerbendipity.
It wouldn't flush.
Teen movies are made of moments such as this. A sudden realisation that a torque-wrench and a bucket might become involved in the near future. A sense of self-loathing that chili burritos were suggested. The dialogue between yourself and a plumber where he uses the words "I'm not going in there mate". All these things pass through your head. Congratulations, welcome to acerbendipity, population: you.
To be continued...
The Man in Black
I was standing in line for pie at The Square Pie Company. The flat-panel speakers above me were playing classic Johnny Cash, which is rare in this country as he's not exactly everyone's first choice of music. I nodded up to the speakers to the guy behind the counter who took my order "Country fan?" to which he replied, "Haven't you heard man? He's dead."
I must have been visibly shaken because he asked if I was okay, but I wasn't hearing him at all. Johnny Cash was dead. My father was dead.
To say that I have unresolved issues with my father would be a serious understatement. I've always resented that he made very little effort during his visitation rights to actually connect with my sister and I. When you're seven and your father and aunt arrive to take you to see your cousins on a saturday afternoon each fortnight you don't know that its because some judge somewhere said so.
He wouldn't ask how we were doing in school. He wouldn't ask how we were doing with our piano lessons. There would be a few minutes of strained silence as we were handed over from one parent to the other, all under the watchful eye of my aunt. Most weekends I would stay with my older cousin playing Atari and only see my father at the dinnertable before the drive home again.
Once in a blue moon he and I would play a game of chess. He taught me how to play and every time I play now I imagine him sat forward in the chair with a cigarette pondering his next move against my ill-conceived attacks. He would win because I would never think more than a move or two ahead.
My step-father became my father-figure, shaping my perceptions of the world. Neither of them ever taught me to shave, shoot or chug a beer. Neither of them ever showed me how to tie a tie, throw a ball or catch a fish. All I got from my father was the ability to play chess and think several moves ahead at all times.
Six years ago I told him that I loved him for the first time, it was a very difficult thing to say after so long left unsaid. These things always are.
Two years ago I read something that my friend Vonnie wrote that clicked with me and made the years of not seeing my father or even feeling that I had a father easy to understand:
I chose to believe that my father was somewhere in America and that someday he might write me a letter or even come to visit.
Who knew? Maybe he had gone to Hollywood and become a star. Maybe I had already seen his face, heard his voice.
Who could he be, I wondered. Clark Gable? Too old. Jimmy Stewart? Closer, but not quite.
Johnny Cash.
Of course.
My father ran away and became Johnny Cash.
This made such perfect sense to me, so much so that since that day I always thought of my father as Johnny Cash. Hearing that he was dead was akin to finding out an imaginary friend had died I suppose, but the shock was the same. This now raises the number of total strangers I've cried over to three.
The Art of Jaywalking
In certain countries of the world jaywalking is an impossible art. German women will shield their children from seeing you cross a road that is empty for miles in both directions if you cross against the lights. The Japanese will frown at the gaijin walking across a road, pushing their way through the waiting throngs on the other side of the empty road.
In the US it's quite a skill to jaywalk in some cities as there are simply no pavements. Here in the UK there are some simply rules to follow.
At all times keep in mind that car insurance is ridiculously expensive and that repairs are usually undertaken by complete cowboys. To a driver there is nothing more important than those three words "No Claims Bonus"
Step one is the easiest.
Step into the road. Stare directly at the person driving the car at you... sorry, I mean towards you... and make sure that you keep your impassive stare all the way across.
If you've got eye-contact you're home free since no-one will run you down as you look pleadingly into their eyes in that "why? what did I do to you? Now I'm going to be a smear in your tire treads and a dent on your fender" way. If they're not paying attention you'd better be prepared to dive pretty fast.
This morning I got a diver.
I hate babysitting
Are you all tucked in Jemima? Then I'll begin... In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf. One Sunday morning the warm sun came up... and POP (makes popping noise by sticking finger in cheek), out of the egg came a tiny...
"facehugger!"
Uh... no, not quite. Its called The Very Hungry Caterpillar for a reason.
"a big dookie beaver-moose mutant?"
Close. It was in fact a very hungry caterpillar. He started looking for some food. On Monday he ate through one apple. But he was still hungry.
"what kind of apple?"
Red one.
"why was he still hungry? was he dyslexic?"
Anorexic. And no.
"mummy thinks I might be dyslexic"
Some people are, some people aren't, its just the mornal yaw of nights. Sorry... I mean normal way of things.
Anyway, on Tuesday he ate through two pears, but he was still hungry. On Wednesday he ate through three plums, but he was still hungry. On Thursday he ate through four strawberries, but he was still hungry. On Friday he ate through five oranges, but he was still hungry. On Saturday he ate through one piece of chocolate cake.
"he had a busy week. won't he die of stress? mummy says that daddy works too hard and that he'll die of stress if she doesn't kill him first for messing around with his..."
Secretary?
"yeah, that"
Anyway, we're not done for Saturday, he goes on a binge. One ice-cream cone, one pickle, one slice of Swiss cheese, one slice of salami...
"is he on the Atkins diet?"
Yes. One lollipop, one piece of cherry pie, one sausage, one cupcake, and one slice of watermelon.
"cor, who ate all the pies? what a fat bloater."
Well he was The Very Hungry Caterpillar for a reason.
"is he going to have a purge now? mummy says she always feels better after a big meal when she's been for a purge"
I swear President Bush never asks these sort of questions when I'm reading this to him. Shut up and let me finish this. That night he had a stomach ache! The next day was Sunday again. The caterpillar ate through one nice leaf, and after that he felt better. He didn't go to church because he was a devil-worshipping caterpillar.
Now he wasn't hungry anymore--and he wasn't a little caterpillar anymore. He was a big fat caterpillar. He built a small house, called a cocoon, around himself. He stayed inside for more than two weeks.
"why?"
Cause he changed the locks and the rightful owner couldn't eject him under the local squatting laws. He had to file for all sorts of documents that would toss the caterpillar out onto the street where he would become the very homeless caterpillar.
"oh"
Then he nibbled a hole in the cocoon, pushed his way out and... he became a beautiful butterfly!
"that was shit"
Yes, it was, but the New Yorker calls it a matchless parable for the entrepreneurial right so shut up and go to sleep. Goodnight.
Tragedy
Disaster struck the small kingdom of Ribenia today when a hurricane swept through the country removing all the leaves. The small rotund purple inhabitants (known popularly as "The Ribena Berries") were subjected to gusts of wind well above 100 mph. Individual berries were said to be in a heightened state of gender confusion.
Poetic spam
I hate spam, there is no justification for spam. I am incredulous that people can make money from it, and wish that there were not people out there desperate enough to buy herbal penis enhancement pills that have been proven to have no effect whatsoever on male performance.
Still...
Some of the content used to bulk up the mails can be interesting in an almost mind-blowingly random way. Witness:
"marginal alecithal priestlike fishless splanchnomegalia guiltiness plasm psychanalytic binding Paracelsic preoppressor neurilema incalver sinkstone freakful unentangleable tussore acculturate liquescence hidated aula unpeccable biphase pendulosity pseudelephant mycoplasmic vino tangibly epornitic stagily coapostate hydrobomb inwrought pricelessness
100 % Free Quote
synange entreating vinic nonvicarious unexotic steerability platformy reticulatoramose unsnubbed Migonitis glucinium Caunus superlikelihood amphipod chebec undiligent songlessness sweetmaker disnest bureaucratist bravuraish polluter pantographer smirkle disinsulation tritangential Naiadaceae unexperience clanfellow seine plauenite restful labrusca barmbrack"
I mean, those are real words. It's almost a form of poetry... its like enough Words of the Day for the rest of the year.
WMD
I'm 6'2" (6'8" in heels) have a buzzcut and wear black all the time. I don't know why I was surprised that the guy literally jumped out of my way when I said "excuse me" on the Tube this morning after I realised he'd been eyeing me carefully as I read How to Build a Nuclear Bomb: And Other Weapons of Mass Destruction.
Accident
In my lifetime I have never had the one big one. You know, the one big accident that you never forget. Car crash, broken limb, bad fall, terrible illness, debilitating disease, socially-unacceptable infection caught from promiscuous experimental unprotected sex... well... eh, no, forget I said that last one.
I was told that everyone has that one "big one". Like the quake in '89 which turned out not to be the big one but just a very nasty little one, I'm still waiting for it to happen. There's a shoe being held up by a lace somewhere and all it will take is a metaphorical nudge for the fingers to lose their grip and that shoe to drop.
My previous boss had the most incredible scars on his back from an accident involving a bus or a shark depending on how drunk he was at the time. My mother lost the feeling in three fingers of her right hand (and her lifelong ability to play the piano). My father fell out of a window whilst drunk.
I do remember quite vividly however watching a woman driving a car suffer a blowout. It was a nice wide four-lane Californian highway and she managed to deftly steers the car from the fastlane to the hardshoulder bringing it down from what seemed like 100 miles an hour at the time to a dead stop.
Which leaves me wondering, have I never had a serious accident because it just hasn't happened yet or because I have managed to avoid it?
Stalk me baby, stalk me!
Okay, you've had a look around the site, you can see what its made up of and where my strengths lie. So tell me, do you think you're the right person for the job?
"Oh totally"
Really? That's fantastic, I've already had to turn three people down today.
"Hey no problem mate, this'll be a piece of cake"
Fantastic, can you perhaps... well... can you maybe breathe heavilly for me?
"What you mean like Darth Vader?"
Sure, if that's your style. Oh yes, very good. Can you handle a kitchen knife well?
"Uh... not really. I can have a go if you've got one handy."
Here... What are you doing? I didn't think you'd start doing the thing with the knife from Aliens with it! Quit that. You're not very committed for a stalker candidate.
"Stalker? I thought you wanted me to clean up the shitty CSS of this site!"
Still Searching
Brenda, come on in, don't be shy.
"Yes, see, its just..."
Please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?
"No, no, I'm fine... uh..."
So, you've seen the job spec, we're looking for an official stalker for the site, some nut job who can pretend to be harassing me so my readers will band together in sympathy. Tell me Ms Spencer, do you think you're the right woman for the job?
"Well I was wondering about the whole... seven days a week..."
Yes, yes, since the site is updated usually once a day you'd have to leave the odd comment, and I do mean odd. Usually weekend posts are sporadic, but you'd be expected to be a true stalker and watch the updated lists and have an RSS feed and everything.
"Its just that..."
Yes? What is it?
"I don't like Mondays"
Next!
The Search Goes On
Good afternoon, please take a seat Mister... uh... Mister...
"Whitman"
Whitman, yes. Charles is it? Fantastic. Well now Mr Whitman, what makes you think you're the right candidate for Acerbia Stalker?
"I like to climb up tall buildings and look at people through those binocular things you put money into"
Thats nice, but why would that qualify you to stalk my website?
"I have a locker full of guns at home and..."
Yes, but you're not very hi-tech are you? I mean, do you even know what a router looks like? Can you mask your IP address and comb through my details from my online journal to form a pattern you could track me down with?
"Well I... I have a tinfoil hat."
Next!
Question
If a girl eats a peach in front of you with her eyes locked on you as the juice dribbles down her chin is she:
a) coming on to you
b) a lesbian, since the peach is subconsciously linked to the female derriere
c) just hungry
d) blind
cause if its a) I've made a friend, b) met someone I can share rude thoughts about women's asses with, c) become hungry again, d) dodged a bullet. I felt really self-conscious since there was no way for me to eroticly eat a ham bagel in reply. So I just did the best job of staring at her boobs that I could.
Posh Grub
I got bored very quickly in the swanky food shop. I'm convinced that Pix just goes to places like this to try and out-stare the vegetables so I started scuffing my shoe on the floor, causing a piercing squeak noise each time. Eventually Pix woke up to this and must have been in a receptive mood as we then proceeded down the aisles giving off piercing squeaks every other step.
Eventually though I got bored of this too and started doing circuits of the freezer unit Pix had stopped in front of to ponder the existence of a higher being... or maybe she was coming up with recipies for lamb, same expression really.
Then it happened. I passed by someone, caught a glance of who it was and was all smiles as I completed my third lap. I siddled up to Pix, "Ooo! Ooo! Edith Bowman is round the other side buying organic eggs!"
Next thing I knew Edith came round the corner, smiling at me. "Did you see that? She smiled at me! She must have heard me"
Pix deflated my bubble: "You just walked past her three times, she probably thinks you're mad" she said as she mused over the troubling and ineffible existential truths contained within a packet of squash.
Fool's Gold
Tall tale? You decide. I'm not saying anything more about my time in Cuba though, Castro may be reading.
Eurgh!
The Babel fish is small, yellow and leech-like, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy not from its carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your Babel fish.
Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindboggingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as the final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God.
The argument goes something like this: "I refuse to prove that I exist," says God, "for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing."
"But," says Man, "The Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED."
"Oh dear," says God, "I hadn't thought of that," and promptly vanished in a puff of logic.
"Oh, that was easy," says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.
Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo's kidneys, but that didn't stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book Well That About Wraps It Up For God.
Meanwhile, the poor Babel fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and cultures, has caused more and bloodier wars than anything else in the history of creation.
Dog TV
16:05 - Snout n' About
Your regular Friday afternoon guide to what is going on in local parks and along your usual walkies routes. With your host Puppy O'Hara, today Puppy spots the best places to urinate and how to determine if a stray is encroching on your patch.
16:35 - You're Just a Little Shih-Tzu
Kid's show where parents complain about their problem offspring as their kids watch through a two-way mirror. With Rex Schnauzer.
17:00 - The Daily Grind
Kid's themed news round-up wherein presenter Rock Hound tears into the day's news-stories, usually the Guardian, before defecating on the pile of shreds.
17:35 - This Old Doghouse
DIY show showing you how to make the most out of your four walls and roof. Tranny and Slutanna show you how best to keep the rain out.
18:00 - L.A. Paw
Law show set in L.A. This week Rover and Snookums have to defend a human who uses a choke-chain on the plaintiff and Rover finds himself trapped in a moral dilemma. Meanwhile Bingo and Lassie take on the case of a Tramp trying to get visitation right's to see his puppies.
19:00 - The Man's Bollocks
White Fang and Fluffy O'Shea's topical show for young bitches about the clubbing scene and the best alleyways in town for a quick snack when you're out running with the pack.
20:00 - Film: The Dogs of War
Tough action story, based on Frederick Forsyth's novel about a mercenary who leads his team of hired killers into a scheme to oust a West African dictator. Christopher Walkenthedog and Tom Berger-Allemand star. ****
23:00 - Smack My Bitch Up
Pug and Spitz show off all the latest music videos with their usual jovial commentary. Tonight sees the network premiere of Brittany Spaniel's latest song "Scratch My Belly (You Know You Want To)"
23:00 - Film: Terrier From The Deep
B-movie horror film which sees the residents of a seaside town being terrorised by an unknown malevolent presence. Jack Terrier and Ori Pei star. **
1:00 - Mastiffation
Pinscher Nipples and Fox Around roll around on the couch and lick each other's bits.
1:30 - The Word of Dog
Saint Bernard offers prayers to those looking for guidance and leads.
2:00 - Close
Traveller
My stepfather has been an enduring inspiration to me throughout my life and through a random Google search I uncovered his site of stories of his travels throughout Europe and Africa. He has boxes full of the most incredible photos from his journeys and I try and persuade him to show some of them off each time I visit to hear him talk about them. He wrote the following about visiting Pocitelj in 1978...
That was my first sight of the secret Muslim corner of Europe: everyone knows of Bosnia now, but I used to think, like everyone else, that until you got to Istanbul, Islam was only a visitor. Here the Ottoman empire was not so long ago: the Turks had gone, within living memory, but everything that remained belonged to their culture.
The same was true in Sarajevo, up the road in the mountains. There I met a Pakistani who lived in Winnipeg, Canada, who was travelling just like me. We went for a coffee together. In Sarajevo they drank coffee the Turkish way: hot as hell, black as death, and sweet as love. We ordered a sweet pastry with it. Friendly service for me, but surly compliance for him... he explained: it was Ramadan. The Sarajevans were muslims, and they knew that he was a muslim too. They could tell just by looking at him. So they'd happily serve me food, that was my business; but they didn't approve of him eating in daylight during Ramadan. This was in Europe!
Anyway, these towns soon suffered the fate of so much of Europe in the twentieth century: their buildings were flattened and their people killed or driven out, because they didn't fit somebody else's politics. Sarajevo was shelled so bad, to prove that it didn't really belong to the people who lived there, that it made everybody's TV screens for a long time.
It is possible that some people who lived in Sarajevo then, were already living in Sarajevo when the Archduke was assassinated and World War 1 started. It is quite likely that some people in Sarajevo had fought against the Nazis when they shelled them. They must be getting quite tired of being European by now.
Pocitelj was of no military or political importance, so it was not attacked early; but it was important psychologically, it seems: after most of the fighting was over, the Croat forces shot it up, and coldly destroyed the mosque, dynamiting its minaret, and they blew up the lovely old Turkish covered market, just so we couldn't enjoy it any more. It wasn't theirs, so nobody could have it.
"Miami is not Cuba my friend"
Back in the days when I was a Cuba tour-guide crossing the fertile plains of the jewel of the Antilles, I used to enjoy hill-walking sometimes. One year there was a terrible blight and the island's entire crop of Yuerbabuena mint was decimated. For the first time in Cuba's history mint had to be imported from abroad.
One weekend I set off climbing the Guaniguanico mountain range on the west of the island in search of any remaining Yerbabuena-Menta plants, recognisable by their small purple flowers and strong spearmint smell, in the vain hope that a small crop may have survived the blight in a sheltered valley or humid cave somewhere.
I searched for several days, returning to my base camp at the end of 14-hour treks through forests of towering ferns and multi-colored orchids. A bird of paradise streaked overhead, its vivid red plumage zipping past in a blur. I picked up a feather that had fallen from it's tail and tucked it into my headband for luck.
Eventually, after exhaustive searching I came to an undiscovered valley on the fringes of a sugar plantation at the base of a natural plateau. Gladioli and camellias were scattered throughout the natural flora. There was a rudimentary path leading towards a sapphire-blue limpid pool of water into which a natural spring cascaded down the plateau face.
Flanked by two of Cuba's prickliest indigenous cacti was a hidden entrance to a cave behind the waterfall. This was somewhat unexpected so I improvised a torch from my shirt and a tree branch. I tucked the small ax I had been using to cut my way through the denser parts of the jungle into my belt and made my way carefully into the cave.
There in the middle of the cave floor was a wilting plant about two feet tall. Around it was a pile of small brown leaves that had already fallen as well as purple petals from the plant's flowers. There were maybe a half dozen fresh green leaves left on it. I had found it, the only surviving Yuerbabuena-Menta plant on the island.
I didn't hesitate for a second. Stripping the leaves from the plant before unceremoniously trampling it into the ground I muddled the leaves with some lime juice and some of the local brown sugar, topped the glass up with some beautiful light amber rum and soda water from my flask and sat there in the cave with a feather in my headband, an ax in my belt and streaks of ash across my cheeks to enjoy the last of the mojitos.
Continue""Miami is not Cuba my friend""
Paper thin
Sometimes you just catch glimpses of newspaper covers, you can go for days wondering if we've attacked Iran or Iraq just because the top corner of the page had folded down over the "q".
Last night I saw the front cover of the Evening Standard proclaiming the death of a footballer's wife by wasp. I assumed it was by wasp sting and she was allergic but then I saw the sub-title with a picture of David Beckham underneath "Beckham tells all about death threats". Great jumping jupiter!
I didn't get a chance to read the article so I've made it up for you:
Everything is under control
I work with a diverse, multi-cultural team of people from across the globe. For many of them English is not their first language, but that doesn't stop some rather deep and meaningful conversations from taking place:
B: "I am losing control"
Me: Ah well, see that would be due to the overbearing stresses of modern day existence. I mean when you get right down to it the basic primal urges are to fight, fuck and eat. Lets face it, we're all just three meals away from cannibalism. Rampant sexually-transmitted diseases seem to have taken a backseat to more pressing issues these days and fast food simply isn't.
B: "No, I mean I am losing control" (gesturing at computer)
Me: Oh right, I see what you mean, that we're slowly replacing ourselves with automated systems and subroutines? Time-saving devices simply mean that we have more time to spend doing more of the same, rather than actual leisure time. Machines ought to be taking the work away from us so we can spend more time bettering ourselves, eh?
B: "No. I cannot find CTRL key on keyboard and I need it for CTRL+ALT+Delete to log off machine."
Me: Ah. Its under the palm of your hand there.
I was a golden god
Saturday, had beers with Pix, Richard, Mark, Louise, PK and they were good.
...
...
What, you want more than that?
Fine, we arrived so early in the day that there was nobody on the pool tables, so we put down three coins and started playing. We didn't start removing coins until the obnoxious Aussie chap added one to the queue. Locals trickled in over the course of our games and when it came time to play challengers somehow I was in line to defend the table.
Me. Defend a pool table. Maybe if I'd had some claymore landmines and a belt-fed M-60 behind some sandbags I'd have felt a bit more confident (okay, a lot more confident) but all I had was a stick. And it was wonky. I couldn't count the number of shots I had fluffed with my wonky stick and now it was our last best hope for keeping the table.
The Aussie introduced himself, I broke, he cracked a joke about doing a better job of it. Then he lost the game. Nobody was more surprised than I was. After that it became a lot easier.
I had visions of Paul Newman and Tom Cruise in The Color of Money or the episode of Fresh Price where James Avery saves Will's ass in a pool hall by hussling the husslers.
Then I made a fatal mistake. I swapped my wonky stick. A short but cute Irish girl had stepped up to the plate and I held both cues as she racked up the balls before handing her the wonky one. I broke and I SUCKED. We got to the 8-ball, with quite the crowd watching. Lads on the fringes were whispering "he's just toying with her, honest" and I was looking over to Mark to see if he'd managed to stay on the other table. He had. More surprising was that he had teamed up with Pix to play doubles and it looked like they were winning?
I suspect they were using a wonky stick. For one afternoon, I was a golden god with a wonky stick then I gave it away to a girl and she beat me. And now I'm sad.
Playing Chicken
It was a freelance assignment I just couldn't refuse. Somebody wanted a definite answer and didn't care how long it took or how much it cost. I suppose the Colonel had some serious financial backing and a vested interest in the answer, I suspected military funding.
When I arrived at the testing facility the Colonel had already assembled some of the preeminent experts in animal psychology and chaos theory, a husband and wife philosopher team and an agricultural historian. I got the feeling I was simply being brought along for the comic relief. We introduced ourselves as the Colonel watched us every step of the way, leaning on his white cane.
Towards the end of the first day we were permitted to see the test facility; a wide expanse of tarmac with yellow dashed delineating lines painted down the middle and solid lines as boundary markers spread out before us. We took our seats and waited for the live tests to begin.
The first chicken didn't cross the road at all and one chaotician leapt up from his seat and jeered at the philosophers until the wife broke his finger. The second chicken made it halfway across before turning back. The animal handler gave it a sharp kick sending it rocketing across the road, but we were told to ignore this test as his interference had invalidated the research data. The third chicken exploded in a shower of feathers for no apparent reason, the animal psychologist put this down to performance anxiety.
Chickens number four through eighteen crossed the road normally, most often in a slow meandering amble with an occasional peck at the tarmac. It was chicken number 19 though that made all the difference.
With a slow but steady gait it walked to the midway point, turned to face us and in a calm, measured voice asked us why we cared? What difference did it make whether he crossed the road or not?
"Surely it doesn't place my or your existence in doubt, nor does it unlock the hidden destiny of the universe," he stared straight at me before finishing "and by God has the joke been done to death by now." I heard a grunt from the grizzled Kentucky Colonel behind me and knew that there was unlikely to be a paycheque heading my way anytime in the near future.