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Fear and loathing outside the off-licence.
Feb. 8th, 2008 11:36 pmI've been meaning to regale you all with a tale of modern manners in which I was going to make a comparison between Jerome K. Jerome's story of transporting cheese from Liverpool to London (Chapter 4 of 'Three men in a boat'. There's an OCRed version that you can Google if you don't already know it. I can wait while you look, it really is very funny.) and my own minor adventures in transporting a large carrier bag stuffed with unwrapped items from the Lush shop or boutique.
But, y'know, fuck it. I've been having fun fixing computers, which means I carry on like a coffee-driven Tourette's (Sufferer? Celebrant?); I have a new (to me) HST book to read on the public transports of despair and I'm the far side of a couple of bottles of beer. Res ipsa loquitur.
Instead, people I don't know are being banged up by Johnny Foreigner for the crime of being funny-looking while in possession of pills bought in a shop, corporate America is acting like the own the place and are thus guardians of our morals, the American gummint are acting like they own the place and are thus guardians of all our data and people I do know are getting shite for the crime of being female in public.
To slightly misquote H.L. Mencken[1], this would be one of those times when a normal man must be tempted to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.
I mean, modulo a distinct lack of power in re. any sort of geopolitical bargaining position, I'm not entirely sure why I put up with any of this. It's not like the ruling clans in either Washington DC or Dubai are going to go "Shit, chaps. Half a dozen Livejournallers have had a couple of scoops on a Friday night and are sounding like they'll cut up rough. It's time we scarpered. Out the back and run like bloody fuck!"
[1] With the right sort of mind, one can learn an awful lot from reading HST.
But, y'know, fuck it. I've been having fun fixing computers, which means I carry on like a coffee-driven Tourette's (Sufferer? Celebrant?); I have a new (to me) HST book to read on the public transports of despair and I'm the far side of a couple of bottles of beer. Res ipsa loquitur.
Instead, people I don't know are being banged up by Johnny Foreigner for the crime of being funny-looking while in possession of pills bought in a shop, corporate America is acting like the own the place and are thus guardians of our morals, the American gummint are acting like they own the place and are thus guardians of all our data and people I do know are getting shite for the crime of being female in public.
To slightly misquote H.L. Mencken[1], this would be one of those times when a normal man must be tempted to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.
I mean, modulo a distinct lack of power in re. any sort of geopolitical bargaining position, I'm not entirely sure why I put up with any of this. It's not like the ruling clans in either Washington DC or Dubai are going to go "Shit, chaps. Half a dozen Livejournallers have had a couple of scoops on a Friday night and are sounding like they'll cut up rough. It's time we scarpered. Out the back and run like bloody fuck!"
[1] With the right sort of mind, one can learn an awful lot from reading HST.
