It’s not easy being the student representative for the maths department; every damn postgraduate mook wants you to lobby for them. Case in point: Danny and BT, who are annoyed about how hot the office has gotten. This leads to an oddly amusing half-hour of attempting to locate the University’s health and safety policy on temperature.
Danny: Hurry up, it’s getting hotter!
SS: It is not!
Danny: It is! The Thai Buddha thermometer you got me says so.
SS: I wouldn’t put too much faith into that thing; it cost me one-ninety nine from Woolworths. Plus, I’m pretty sure IBB broke it last week.
Danny: Just find the damn policy, would you?
SS: It’s pretty difficult to navigate.
BT: Nothing on temperature?
SS: No, although I can tell you our policy on chemical weapon attack, if you want.
Danny: We have a policy in case we get hit with Agent Orange?
SS: Yes. Also if we contract gastroenteritis, or if we get covered in amniotic fluid.
BT: What the Hell goes on in this university?
SS: Ah!
Danny: You got it?
SS: Maybe. It’s a check-list for office safety. Say, we’re not using razor-blades instead of scissors, are we?
BT: We try to keep sharp objects out of your reach.
SS: Very wise. We can tick that box, anyway.
Danny: Are you going to read the whole form?
SS: Wait! I’ve got it. The magic number for maximum temperature is… thirty degrees.
Danny: You’re kidding! We could open up a damn sauna. This is outrageous.
SS: The policy on amniotic fluid is pretty slap-dash, too.
BT: So we can’t get the university to do anything?
SS: They did install those tinted windows.
Danny: That just make the room darker.
SS: And those fans.
Danny: They just make the room louder.
BT: They’re also a hazard to paper work.
Danny: Do you have any work on paper?
BT: Shut up.
SS: If we can focus, the key aspect to all of this is: you’re boned.
Danny: But it’s hot as Hell!
SS: It’s only twenty-five degrees.
Danny: In April. In the North-East.
SS: Come back to me in June, then.
Danny: I’ll be a shrivelled, desiccated husk by then!
SS: We could turn off the computers.
Danny: We’re not allowed to turn off the computers.
BT: We could throw the computers out of the window; claim the insurance.
SS: Hypothetically speaking, BT, what would we write on the claims form?
BT: That the computers exploded from the heat.
SS: What, exploded, levitated, threw themselves out of the window, and smashed themselves on the ground?
A pause
BT: I’m starting to come around to this sauna idea.
SS: Ooh! We could grow tomatoes.
Danny: Or pineapples.
SS: Or opium.
BT: We could be drugs dealers!
Danny: Driving around in limousines with tinted windows.
SS: Haven’t we already decided that would just make it unbearably hot? We’d be halfway through hiring our first bunch of runners before we’d spontaneously explode, levitate, smash through the window, and throw ourselves to the ground.
BT: So what do you suggest.
SS: Erm, we check ourselves for gastroenteritis?
Our heroes exit, intent upon checking the firmness of their stools.
Wednesday 30 April 2008
Monday 28 April 2008
Pop-Gun Psychology
Graphology, OFR humbly submits, is total crap. Maybe it's because even our neatest hand-writing looks like thousands of ink-soaked spiders have re-fought the Normandy landings across our pages, but we find it hard to swallow that the outlines of these massacred arachnids can reveal anything about or lives, beyond the fact that we spent our handwriting lessons imagining we were Optimus Prime, which we kind of knew already.
But whilst OFR may be condescending, intolerant and, at this point, less popular than syphilis (and roughly as funny), we are great believers in helping our fellow man. If we decry one theory, we are honour-bound to replace it with another. So what method do we recommend for staring into the foetid depths of the human soul (short of actually paying for therapy, which is expensive and this writer's case at least simply reinforced what he already knew: women are evil)? The answer is simple: create a psychological profile based entirely on the attitude your subject displays when attempting to wage war upon clusters of pixels.
Broadly speaking, the entire fascinating smorgasbord of human existence can be broken down into the six techniques employed whilst fighting the Hun, trading shots with the Covenant, or attempting to set a big-titted cowgirl on fire whilst dodging rocket fire from the cyborg monkeys.
1. The Yellow Belly
God, those bullets look like they hurt! How do I fire? How do I turn round? I've turned round too far, how do I turn back? What are those red dots on the radar? OHMYGODWHATDOIDO!?! Some people who are bafflingly attached to a body that will recover in seconds from the most serious of simulated images. The mere idea that they might meet a hideous but brief end is so distasteful that they take every step to avoid it. Practice attempts are demanded in lieu of boot-camp. Confrontational missions are avoided in favour of hand-holding cake-walks in which your avatars skip gaily through fields of marigolds taking pot-shots at local lagomorphs. Sometimes you get the distinct impression they would be happier if there were no enemies whatsoever, and the shoulder buttons controlled frisbee throwing and picnic laying. Which, frankly, is just a waste of hardware. If you're not going to use the mini-gun, you may as well give it to a kid that will.
Psychological insight: Conscientious objector and/or chronic bed-wetter.
2. The Berserker
Damn the torpedoes! To Hell with the grenades! Nuts to the giant alien insect lobbing spores at your precious, precious face! You want to live forever? The berserker has only two modes of play: charge forward firing, and bleed to death on the floor. Certain members of this genus have been known to tape down their left stick into the "advance until dead" position, so as to leave their hand free for a beer. Any vagaries of strategy: caution; map-learning; re-loading; all are cast aside as impediments to the adrenaline rush. Out of ammo? Swing the rifle as a club. Totally unarmed? Run forward, fists swinging, until someone ends up separated from their spinal column. And then, when the dust settles on your broken corpse, you can revel in the birth of a new life, secure in the knowledge that your brutal death has taught your nothing beyond the fact that GUNS R REELY KEWL LOL!
Psychological insight: Neanderthal throwback fascinated by White Man's Fire.
3. The Wise Old War Horse
The scum of this world or any other. Inveterate cheaters who only get anywhere in pixellated combat by such underhanded tactics as "memorising maps" and "employing cover". Oftentimes they are observed aiming at their enemies. There is no soul inside these emotionless automatons, and their endless victories over their peers must come as small consolation for the fact that in their icy, coal-powered hearts, they are truly dead.
Psychological insight: Rain Man with a rifle.
4. The L.C. Nicholson
The enemy are tough. They are mean. Their weapons are pointed right at your cerebellum. And all that separates you from them is the thin line of your allies, each one ready to give their lives for you. Suckers. Why go out for a burger, when you can have a steak at home, carved from the thighs of the comrade in arms you just shot in the back? It's quick; it's simple. At least, it is the first time, but then you're in the middle of a civil war. Think Gettysburg, except with three armies, one of which may or may not be zombies packing machine guns. Sounds fun, right?
Psychological insight: What have you done?
5. Team Up 1: War Buddies
War is Hell, and you can't get through it without your mates. Certain experiences bond a pair of friends like no other. You can't ride shotgun in a jeep, firing at the alien monsters overhead, whilst your friend drives you through the explosions, and not feel some sort of connection. Of course, this is a world of electrons and polygons, and there are a limited number of ways to express your mutual manly affection in a manner that society will find acceptable. One way is to continually attempt to kill your partner in the most amusing way possible. Not with a gun, if you can help it. Try a knife. A broken bottle. A brick. If you can attach six pounds of TNT to the guy's backside, then that would be perfect, especially if you can then lay further explosives on the blackened cadaver. It would be unfair to label these people as backstabbers, they'll stab each other from whatever direction they feel like, and you'll see it coming in every sense of the phrase. Well, not every sense, fnar fnar.
Psychological insight: Blossoming romance.
6. Team Up 2: Mercenary Meat Shield
Like watching Torville and Dean, except both of them are spraying out bullets and Torville is a cross-eyed drooling simpleton who can never remember which button to press to reload. It comes as quite a surprise when years of accumulated skill at forcing people to consume lead enemas suddenly becomes useless because the idiot you've been paired with fights the good fight like a spectacle-less Gandhi. The talent-free flesh puppet might just come in handy as mobile cover, but since the witless cur is constantly running around at random, getting lost or being set on fire, you can't even count on him to manage that, and suddenly the faceless electronic hordes arrayed against you are no longer the true enemy. The most worthy object of your hatred is six inches away from you, waving his control pad impotently at the screen, demanding the foe be re-programmed to a level of competence they feel comfortable with. All of which begs the question: why wage war in the virtual arena when you can just garrotte the idiot in front of you with his own controller flex. After all, he's clearly too stupid to exist in the real world. In some sense, wouldn't you both be winning?
Psychological insight: Abusive relationship, probably deserved.
We hope this helps. Please note that SpaceSquid has qualifications in psychology only in the sense that Jersey cows have qualifications in livestock farming.
But whilst OFR may be condescending, intolerant and, at this point, less popular than syphilis (and roughly as funny), we are great believers in helping our fellow man. If we decry one theory, we are honour-bound to replace it with another. So what method do we recommend for staring into the foetid depths of the human soul (short of actually paying for therapy, which is expensive and this writer's case at least simply reinforced what he already knew: women are evil)? The answer is simple: create a psychological profile based entirely on the attitude your subject displays when attempting to wage war upon clusters of pixels.
Broadly speaking, the entire fascinating smorgasbord of human existence can be broken down into the six techniques employed whilst fighting the Hun, trading shots with the Covenant, or attempting to set a big-titted cowgirl on fire whilst dodging rocket fire from the cyborg monkeys.
1. The Yellow Belly
God, those bullets look like they hurt! How do I fire? How do I turn round? I've turned round too far, how do I turn back? What are those red dots on the radar? OHMYGODWHATDOIDO!?! Some people who are bafflingly attached to a body that will recover in seconds from the most serious of simulated images. The mere idea that they might meet a hideous but brief end is so distasteful that they take every step to avoid it. Practice attempts are demanded in lieu of boot-camp. Confrontational missions are avoided in favour of hand-holding cake-walks in which your avatars skip gaily through fields of marigolds taking pot-shots at local lagomorphs. Sometimes you get the distinct impression they would be happier if there were no enemies whatsoever, and the shoulder buttons controlled frisbee throwing and picnic laying. Which, frankly, is just a waste of hardware. If you're not going to use the mini-gun, you may as well give it to a kid that will.
Psychological insight: Conscientious objector and/or chronic bed-wetter.
2. The Berserker
Damn the torpedoes! To Hell with the grenades! Nuts to the giant alien insect lobbing spores at your precious, precious face! You want to live forever? The berserker has only two modes of play: charge forward firing, and bleed to death on the floor. Certain members of this genus have been known to tape down their left stick into the "advance until dead" position, so as to leave their hand free for a beer. Any vagaries of strategy: caution; map-learning; re-loading; all are cast aside as impediments to the adrenaline rush. Out of ammo? Swing the rifle as a club. Totally unarmed? Run forward, fists swinging, until someone ends up separated from their spinal column. And then, when the dust settles on your broken corpse, you can revel in the birth of a new life, secure in the knowledge that your brutal death has taught your nothing beyond the fact that GUNS R REELY KEWL LOL!
Psychological insight: Neanderthal throwback fascinated by White Man's Fire.
3. The Wise Old War Horse
The scum of this world or any other. Inveterate cheaters who only get anywhere in pixellated combat by such underhanded tactics as "memorising maps" and "employing cover". Oftentimes they are observed aiming at their enemies. There is no soul inside these emotionless automatons, and their endless victories over their peers must come as small consolation for the fact that in their icy, coal-powered hearts, they are truly dead.
Psychological insight: Rain Man with a rifle.
4. The L.C. Nicholson
The enemy are tough. They are mean. Their weapons are pointed right at your cerebellum. And all that separates you from them is the thin line of your allies, each one ready to give their lives for you. Suckers. Why go out for a burger, when you can have a steak at home, carved from the thighs of the comrade in arms you just shot in the back? It's quick; it's simple. At least, it is the first time, but then you're in the middle of a civil war. Think Gettysburg, except with three armies, one of which may or may not be zombies packing machine guns. Sounds fun, right?
Psychological insight: What have you done?
5. Team Up 1: War Buddies
War is Hell, and you can't get through it without your mates. Certain experiences bond a pair of friends like no other. You can't ride shotgun in a jeep, firing at the alien monsters overhead, whilst your friend drives you through the explosions, and not feel some sort of connection. Of course, this is a world of electrons and polygons, and there are a limited number of ways to express your mutual manly affection in a manner that society will find acceptable. One way is to continually attempt to kill your partner in the most amusing way possible. Not with a gun, if you can help it. Try a knife. A broken bottle. A brick. If you can attach six pounds of TNT to the guy's backside, then that would be perfect, especially if you can then lay further explosives on the blackened cadaver. It would be unfair to label these people as backstabbers, they'll stab each other from whatever direction they feel like, and you'll see it coming in every sense of the phrase. Well, not every sense, fnar fnar.
Psychological insight: Blossoming romance.
6. Team Up 2: Mercenary Meat Shield
Like watching Torville and Dean, except both of them are spraying out bullets and Torville is a cross-eyed drooling simpleton who can never remember which button to press to reload. It comes as quite a surprise when years of accumulated skill at forcing people to consume lead enemas suddenly becomes useless because the idiot you've been paired with fights the good fight like a spectacle-less Gandhi. The talent-free flesh puppet might just come in handy as mobile cover, but since the witless cur is constantly running around at random, getting lost or being set on fire, you can't even count on him to manage that, and suddenly the faceless electronic hordes arrayed against you are no longer the true enemy. The most worthy object of your hatred is six inches away from you, waving his control pad impotently at the screen, demanding the foe be re-programmed to a level of competence they feel comfortable with. All of which begs the question: why wage war in the virtual arena when you can just garrotte the idiot in front of you with his own controller flex. After all, he's clearly too stupid to exist in the real world. In some sense, wouldn't you both be winning?
Psychological insight: Abusive relationship, probably deserved.
We hope this helps. Please note that SpaceSquid has qualifications in psychology only in the sense that Jersey cows have qualifications in livestock farming.
Sunday 27 April 2008
Tonight's Viewing
The Sixth Day : In which Arnholt is a futuristic thingy pilot who ends up in the middle of daft conspiracy to clone dunder headed American Football players or something.
The incredibly complex plot is foiled as Arnie users his wits to outsmart the bad guys and his knowledge of oldschool metalworking to build them a prison. Ok, alright he shoots pretty much everyone he meets.
To be fair the art and design departments went to work whilst everyone else involved clearly collected the cheques and phoned it in; quite possibly from another continent.
The Austrian Oak shouts and runs and shoots and does 'comedy' whilst wandering why Jean Claude always does double parts because man it is hard work.
The incredibly complex plot is foiled as Arnie users his wits to outsmart the bad guys and his knowledge of oldschool metalworking to build them a prison. Ok, alright he shoots pretty much everyone he meets.
To be fair the art and design departments went to work whilst everyone else involved clearly collected the cheques and phoned it in; quite possibly from another continent.
The Austrian Oak shouts and runs and shoots and does 'comedy' whilst wandering why Jean Claude always does double parts because man it is hard work.
Saturday 26 April 2008
OFR vs TV No. 1
Title: Are You Harder Than a Ten-Year Old?
Pitch: Noel Edmunds looks on with a terrifying leering grin as Britain's smuggest child prodigies are beaten senseless by full-grown adults in a variety of ever-more violent gladitorial combats, loosely based around playground bullying and PE teacher pederasty.
Target Audience: Everyone who has ever met a smart kid.
Pitch: Noel Edmunds looks on with a terrifying leering grin as Britain's smuggest child prodigies are beaten senseless by full-grown adults in a variety of ever-more violent gladitorial combats, loosely based around playground bullying and PE teacher pederasty.
Target Audience: Everyone who has ever met a smart kid.
Monday 21 April 2008
Fan Service
Following an exhaustive search, Our Front Room is proud to announce that we have finally located someone who could loosely be described as a "fan" of this publication (by which I mean I have conclusive proof that he has, in fact, read at least two posts here). This enigmatic figure, known only as "Jamie", is at the centre of a veritable cyclone of mystery and controversy. Who is Jamie? Why does he have so much free time on his hands? And will he continue to plug this blog to attractive women in Oxford restaurants?
Sunday 20 April 2008
Film Of The Day
Southland Tales
Picked up last week and got 'round to watching this afternoon, so ;
Ok, I don't really know what it was about - I mean I followed the plot but I have little clue as to what the actual 'story' was.
The ending is on the verge of making some kind of sense but it's like when something is on the tip of your tongue and you can't quite get there.
It is a mess of ideas some of which seem to be left hanging forgotten and others half developed. Having said that there are some striking moments in there - the prologue, the Mega-Zepplin, the Killers dream sequence (at least I think it was a dream sequence).
Also some humourous stuff such as car.. er.. porn, the accusations scene, the 'improv' in the con by the neo-Marxists.
It's a shame that Kelly was allowed to over-reach himself so much as I can imagine if someone had made him scale down the ambition a little he may have come out with an exceptional second outing.
Still an interesting failure that still has more going for it than an awful lot of other films and here's hoping Kelly's next film will benefit from him getting Southland Tales out of his system
Picked up last week and got 'round to watching this afternoon, so ;
Ok, I don't really know what it was about - I mean I followed the plot but I have little clue as to what the actual 'story' was.
The ending is on the verge of making some kind of sense but it's like when something is on the tip of your tongue and you can't quite get there.
It is a mess of ideas some of which seem to be left hanging forgotten and others half developed. Having said that there are some striking moments in there - the prologue, the Mega-Zepplin, the Killers dream sequence (at least I think it was a dream sequence).
Also some humourous stuff such as car.. er.. porn, the accusations scene, the 'improv' in the con by the neo-Marxists.
It's a shame that Kelly was allowed to over-reach himself so much as I can imagine if someone had made him scale down the ambition a little he may have come out with an exceptional second outing.
Still an interesting failure that still has more going for it than an awful lot of other films and here's hoping Kelly's next film will benefit from him getting Southland Tales out of his system
Wednesday 16 April 2008
Last Night's Viewing
Battlestar Galactica : Spoilers ahead for those that are too silly and didn't watch this yesterday.
In which we take to the stars again with out intrepid crew of Cylons and the human dogs they are hunting down!
By now the Colonial fleet is halfway to Earth and the dead girl knows which way to go next but the dying President wants to stay special and dictates the only way to go is to follow her drug induced route planning.
The newly outed four get a new secret club going, immediately picking on Tory for not having been in their last secret club that went so well.
Meanwhile Lee Adama fancies a spot of politics and quit the military to the all-round joy of everyone else who automatically get promotions. Tho' wandering around in his snappy suit doesn't stop him from reminding everyone else they are being idiots, even if does believe the dead girl without question.
Baltar is now the Buddha of suburbia, by which I mean he is Jesus to hippies living in the bowels of Galactica for some reason. Perhaps it's a sit in that never ends because no-one notices.
Finally our friendly neighbourhood Cylons are finding it hard to get along with each other now that it's distressingly clear they have not got any kind of plan for this stuff. As one set dumbs down the Raiders the other set smarts-up the Centurions. One nil to the side that palled up with the ones that can help you inside the ship.
In which we take to the stars again with out intrepid crew of Cylons and the human dogs they are hunting down!
By now the Colonial fleet is halfway to Earth and the dead girl knows which way to go next but the dying President wants to stay special and dictates the only way to go is to follow her drug induced route planning.
The newly outed four get a new secret club going, immediately picking on Tory for not having been in their last secret club that went so well.
Meanwhile Lee Adama fancies a spot of politics and quit the military to the all-round joy of everyone else who automatically get promotions. Tho' wandering around in his snappy suit doesn't stop him from reminding everyone else they are being idiots, even if does believe the dead girl without question.
Baltar is now the Buddha of suburbia, by which I mean he is Jesus to hippies living in the bowels of Galactica for some reason. Perhaps it's a sit in that never ends because no-one notices.
Finally our friendly neighbourhood Cylons are finding it hard to get along with each other now that it's distressingly clear they have not got any kind of plan for this stuff. As one set dumbs down the Raiders the other set smarts-up the Centurions. One nil to the side that palled up with the ones that can help you inside the ship.
Monday 14 April 2008
A Plan Forms
Overheard during an impromptu showing of Silence of the Lambs. All is calm until the moth-drenched finale.
SS: Argh! A soul-searing encounter with my greatest fear!
INP: I'd forgotten your idiotic fear of small harmless creatures.
SS: There are so many. So many.
INP: Is it a volume thing, then? Would a single solitary moth freak you out?
SS: Only if it flew at my head. Or was a giant moth. Like Rodan.
INP: You mean Mothra.
SS: Yeah. That was a fairly obvious mistake, now I think about it.
INP: So you don't like insects near your face?
SS: I don't like anything near my face. Or neck. Insects, seatbelts, women trying to kiss me.
INP: That explains a few things.
SS: That's why I never wash my face, either.
INP: That explains other, somewhat unpleasant things.
SS: Beetles are the worst. Hideous arthropodic gits.
INP: What if a moth came at you carrying a beetle?
SS: Beetles can fly too, as a general rule.
INP: I suppose. Have you considered aversion therapy?
SS: Do I get to kiss a lot of women?
INP: My plan was more to keep kicking a football at your face.
SS: This is exactly why I don't like you watching this film in the house. Can't we watch Red Dragon?
INP: Is it any good? Because Hannibal was so bad I almost ate someone.
SS: Sort of. It's entirely thanks to Red Dragon that I know you can arrange for a blind woman to stroke a tiger and in return she is immediately required to perform fellatio upon you.
INP: Is this legally binding?
SS: It is. Of course, setting up some kind of big-cat-feeling session isn't particularly easy, so our secret knowledge doesn't really get us very far.
There is silence.
INP: We could use a cat.
SS: Too small.
INP: We could keep moving it around, I guess.
SS: Tricky.
INP: Erm... we could bind the cats together?
SS: I think the law would have a few things to say about stitching cats together.
INP: Velcro would be a more obvious choice, surely?
SS: Excellent! The RSPCA will be powerless to stop us! Bring me thirty tabbies and your most attractive blind friend!
Exeunt stage right, carrying twelve cans of Whiska's and two very disturbing leers.
SS: Argh! A soul-searing encounter with my greatest fear!
INP: I'd forgotten your idiotic fear of small harmless creatures.
SS: There are so many. So many.
INP: Is it a volume thing, then? Would a single solitary moth freak you out?
SS: Only if it flew at my head. Or was a giant moth. Like Rodan.
INP: You mean Mothra.
SS: Yeah. That was a fairly obvious mistake, now I think about it.
INP: So you don't like insects near your face?
SS: I don't like anything near my face. Or neck. Insects, seatbelts, women trying to kiss me.
INP: That explains a few things.
SS: That's why I never wash my face, either.
INP: That explains other, somewhat unpleasant things.
SS: Beetles are the worst. Hideous arthropodic gits.
INP: What if a moth came at you carrying a beetle?
SS: Beetles can fly too, as a general rule.
INP: I suppose. Have you considered aversion therapy?
SS: Do I get to kiss a lot of women?
INP: My plan was more to keep kicking a football at your face.
SS: This is exactly why I don't like you watching this film in the house. Can't we watch Red Dragon?
INP: Is it any good? Because Hannibal was so bad I almost ate someone.
SS: Sort of. It's entirely thanks to Red Dragon that I know you can arrange for a blind woman to stroke a tiger and in return she is immediately required to perform fellatio upon you.
INP: Is this legally binding?
SS: It is. Of course, setting up some kind of big-cat-feeling session isn't particularly easy, so our secret knowledge doesn't really get us very far.
There is silence.
INP: We could use a cat.
SS: Too small.
INP: We could keep moving it around, I guess.
SS: Tricky.
INP: Erm... we could bind the cats together?
SS: I think the law would have a few things to say about stitching cats together.
INP: Velcro would be a more obvious choice, surely?
SS: Excellent! The RSPCA will be powerless to stop us! Bring me thirty tabbies and your most attractive blind friend!
Exeunt stage right, carrying twelve cans of Whiska's and two very disturbing leers.
Saturday 12 April 2008
Tonight's Viewing: What We Learned
The TARDIS punishes people pissing around by making them sound Welsh. Clearly it has a sense of humour.
The Romans were aware of the concept of modern art two millenia before the modern age. Of course, the TARDIS might just have heard the Latin for "Pointless shit" and done its beset to translate.
Earthquakes can be interpreted as a sign of the Gods' approval, although what such people would consider a sign of dissatisfaction is hard to guess.
Magma can be neutralised with a bucket of water. Presumably Pompeii could have been saved if only the Romans had had access to garden hoses.
Always carry a water-pistol with you. You never know when you might need to badly sting a rock-based alien life-form.
Time Lords can see the flux of the universe, live for centuries, and subconsciously choose to hide in cupboards holding alien supercomputers on a weekly basis.
The fiery destruction of your own city is a spectator sport.
The Romans were aware of the concept of modern art two millenia before the modern age. Of course, the TARDIS might just have heard the Latin for "Pointless shit" and done its beset to translate.
Earthquakes can be interpreted as a sign of the Gods' approval, although what such people would consider a sign of dissatisfaction is hard to guess.
Magma can be neutralised with a bucket of water. Presumably Pompeii could have been saved if only the Romans had had access to garden hoses.
Always carry a water-pistol with you. You never know when you might need to badly sting a rock-based alien life-form.
Time Lords can see the flux of the universe, live for centuries, and subconsciously choose to hide in cupboards holding alien supercomputers on a weekly basis.
The fiery destruction of your own city is a spectator sport.
Tonight's viewing will be...
Doctor Who - in which our hirsute hero attempts to answer two burning questions: can Catherine Tate survive in a show which doesn't allow her to change wigs, swear, or swear whilst changing wigs; and will his increasingly irritating Elder Wand/blue laser pointer do the job when he waves it at an erupting volcano.
Thursday 10 April 2008
Tonight's Viewing: What We Learned
T-888's are programmed for deep infiltration, assassination, and getting the ladies drunk. Not only are they hell-bent on the extinction of humanity, but they're creepy date-rapists as well. They also spend too much time in high-school shower rooms (not the girls' showers, either, which would be understandable).
"Pizza day" is apparently an event worthy of comment. Man, high school must suck.
Someone at SkyNet made the conscious choice to upgrade Terminator speech banks so that they contained a large array of natty one-liners, to the extent where they are employed after the robot's done a-neckbrakin'.
Amoral murderous machines find it easier to get dates than I do. Then they strangle them in the shower. When do I get to strangle someone in a shower? And why were the two themes of the episode showers and neck trauma?
Craft knives are the tool of choice for cyborg brain-surgery.
"Pizza day" is apparently an event worthy of comment. Man, high school must suck.
Someone at SkyNet made the conscious choice to upgrade Terminator speech banks so that they contained a large array of natty one-liners, to the extent where they are employed after the robot's done a-neckbrakin'.
Amoral murderous machines find it easier to get dates than I do. Then they strangle them in the shower. When do I get to strangle someone in a shower? And why were the two themes of the episode showers and neck trauma?
Craft knives are the tool of choice for cyborg brain-surgery.
OFR vs Hollywood No.1
Title: Cod Almighty!
Hollywood Formula Pitch: (Bonfire of the Vanities + Jaws) x From Dusk Till Dawn
Synopsis: The touching yet hard-nosed story of how the executive at the No Catch cod farm pissed away a small fortune snorting cocaine off hookers' tits rather than engage robotically in the far nobler aim of continuing the genocide of an entire fish species. Goggle with nauseating jealously as the suits fritter away their expense accounts, and engage in golf games during the working day. Then watch with smug satisfaction as their immoral but faintly boring antics lead them into a spiral of failure and self-recrimination.
Oh, also; the director of the company is secretly developing mutated zombie cod that attack humans on sight, leading to a ludicrous twist in the third act where shoals of cruelly twisted gadidae attack the hero (whomever he is), and the big-titted heroine who is probably a journalist or something. This will also be lead into a tacked-on romantic subplot which will give the ladies something to enjoy.
Money shot(s): A low-speed golf-cart chase ending in one cart careening into a bunker and detonating unconvincingly. A secret underground zombie cod factory in which several one-hit-point characters meet a grizzly end. A gratuitous sex scene, filmed underwater in a cod-hatchery.
Tagline: Time to get battered.
Hollywood Formula Pitch: (Bonfire of the Vanities + Jaws) x From Dusk Till Dawn
Synopsis: The touching yet hard-nosed story of how the executive at the No Catch cod farm pissed away a small fortune snorting cocaine off hookers' tits rather than engage robotically in the far nobler aim of continuing the genocide of an entire fish species. Goggle with nauseating jealously as the suits fritter away their expense accounts, and engage in golf games during the working day. Then watch with smug satisfaction as their immoral but faintly boring antics lead them into a spiral of failure and self-recrimination.
Oh, also; the director of the company is secretly developing mutated zombie cod that attack humans on sight, leading to a ludicrous twist in the third act where shoals of cruelly twisted gadidae attack the hero (whomever he is), and the big-titted heroine who is probably a journalist or something. This will also be lead into a tacked-on romantic subplot which will give the ladies something to enjoy.
Money shot(s): A low-speed golf-cart chase ending in one cart careening into a bunker and detonating unconvincingly. A secret underground zombie cod factory in which several one-hit-point characters meet a grizzly end. A gratuitous sex scene, filmed underwater in a cod-hatchery.
Tagline: Time to get battered.
Tonight's viewing will be...
Terminator : The Sarah Jones Chronicles - where a ancient Spartan Queen fights with aid of space faring near mute crazy girl to save a floppy hairy mother's boy of the worst kind so he can save mankind later.
Not withstanding the fact that everything has changed now and it is really worth saving a guy who picked out his own dad to get hot with his mother say they could conceive him. Hmm, I suspect Freud who be thinking about the son going back to make time with his own mother whilst she was still hot. Now I generally am thinking too much about this.
Not withstanding the fact that everything has changed now and it is really worth saving a guy who picked out his own dad to get hot with his mother say they could conceive him. Hmm, I suspect Freud who be thinking about the son going back to make time with his own mother whilst she was still hot. Now I generally am thinking too much about this.
Antone Sergy Romanov Putin Oligarchy Vladimir Adbramovichi
Below we present the first in a series of diary entries form the Russian legend that is Antone Sergy Romanov Putin Oligarchy Vladimir Adbramovichi
It was the cold winter of '79 and I was once more in the motherland when the Polit bureau called me once more to serve.
"Antone", they say, "you are the finest one amongst us to proudly wear the red star"
"Yes" I say.
"We need you to help us" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"Good" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"You must help us retrieve an important thing, a valuable piece of proud Russian history" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"What is?" I say.
"Is unique example of russian genius" they say, "it is orignal code for Tetris" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"It will be hard to retrieve" they say.
"Yes" I say, "where is?" I say.
"It is land of most-hated capitalists" they say, "it is in the land of Yankee. Stored in the vaults of Fort Knox, as seen in British imperalist polit-film Goldfinger" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"It is guarded by a battlion of america's finest men" they say, "but you must hurry for the Japanese also chase this precious artifact with their deadly ninjas who are as demons in men"
"Yes" I say.
"You will need to break into the Fort, avoid the America pig-dog GIs and evade the deadly Japanese before stealing the artifact and be returning home surely fighting off CIA agents and thier lap dog gentlemen spy lackeys. Though we, can-not provide you any arms nor assitance Antone, the mission is to be so secret that we can not possibly help".
"Yes" I say.
"Can you do it?" they say.
"Is no problem" I say.
And so began the odessy of Antone.
It was the cold winter of '79 and I was once more in the motherland when the Polit bureau called me once more to serve.
"Antone", they say, "you are the finest one amongst us to proudly wear the red star"
"Yes" I say.
"We need you to help us" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"Good" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"You must help us retrieve an important thing, a valuable piece of proud Russian history" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"What is?" I say.
"Is unique example of russian genius" they say, "it is orignal code for Tetris" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"It will be hard to retrieve" they say.
"Yes" I say, "where is?" I say.
"It is land of most-hated capitalists" they say, "it is in the land of Yankee. Stored in the vaults of Fort Knox, as seen in British imperalist polit-film Goldfinger" they say.
"Yes" I say.
"It is guarded by a battlion of america's finest men" they say, "but you must hurry for the Japanese also chase this precious artifact with their deadly ninjas who are as demons in men"
"Yes" I say.
"You will need to break into the Fort, avoid the America pig-dog GIs and evade the deadly Japanese before stealing the artifact and be returning home surely fighting off CIA agents and thier lap dog gentlemen spy lackeys. Though we, can-not provide you any arms nor assitance Antone, the mission is to be so secret that we can not possibly help".
"Yes" I say.
"Can you do it?" they say.
"Is no problem" I say.
And so began the odessy of Antone.
It Begins!
From forth this portal will spew the ramblings and ranting of Our Front Room alongside some windows onto the lives and loves of unique indivuals!
It BEGINS!
It BEGINS!
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