These new Obamacare laws are an insane burden on me, the gregarious landed gentry. They have all kinds of workers’ rights laws for Sherpas now.

That’s just messing it up for everyone. First, you have to register your Sherpas. Then, you have to undergo background checks if you want to buy more Sherpas.

What’s next, will I be limited to five Sherpas? That’s just increasing the burden on my existing Sherpas.

And of course, the real victim here is the Sherpas themselves. I had to take away Lopchang’s extended magazine.

…and that annoyed him, since the flight to Nepal is really long.


Smudge Anthony started out as a sailcloth-waxer, but by the age of 12 he had graduated to the stevedoring profession. At this he labored for uncountable years. However, he was cast out of Local 5129155 after being misdiagnosed with a case of Shallow Ankle by a doctor whose lingering eye didst gaze upon Smudge’s union card. Aghast at learning of his Ankle, Smudge sold the card to the doctor, who promptly donned a fake Smudge Anthony Action Mustache and went to work unloading ships, which is a much more noble profession. The mustache fooled nobody at the docks, however, as every man among their noble company also wore Smudge Anthony Action Mustaches, to ward off the brisk Forpisquarrie needlin’ frost. They cast the doctor out after beating him soundly about the brainstem with boathooks, and Smudge was told not to return.

Thus, he embraced his betrayal, warmed by the knowledge that his ankles were not Shallow, but cooled by the temperatures, which averaged eight or nine kelvin in Smudge’s dugout. He pooled some blood and teeth and bought a fishing boat, the “Ol’ New Sally”, which he home-ported in his boyhood home port of New Naxahuassetport. Despite never having had a child, Smudge was burdened by crippling child support payments, and so he was compelled to put to sea in conditions that kept all the other fisherman wedged up inside their boilers. Due to this financially-motivated monopolization of the high seas, Smudge managed a good catch almost daily, and he was soon able to buy not only a functioning hat, but a new Caprice made out of iron, poo, and barnacles. With this, Smudge could now take his iron lung everywhere, and so he began to investigate what things were more than three yards away from the sea and Ol’ New Sally.

To Smudge’s great and terrible shock, land not only went on for several miles inland, but indeed several thousand. Rather than living on a meagre sandbar, as he had assumed, Smudge lived on a continent that was rated in the top ten of all continents, size-wise, and bountiful with all sorts of things like crow meat, Germans, stores that sell you Famicom games, and a viable pen-ink industry. Smudge had never heard of any of these things. He put Ol’ New Sally up for sale and loaded up the Caprice (now christened New Ol’ New Sally) and put a hesitant tire to highway.

Smudge Anthony’s sea-skin does not permit him to experience the full daylight to which you and I are accustomed, because he was raised in, and indeed by, the thick coastal fog native to the region that extruded him, and so he must travel at night. But if you are driving on County Road 124 or Highway 8A or Route 53 after the sun goes down, and you pass an old Caprice the color of iron and poop, wave in vain at Smudge Anthony, the Highway Stevedore.


There’s a store here that imports a bunch of toys, candy, video games, and similar whatnot from overseas. One of the categories of whatnot they import is condoms. That may be a potentially iffy area as far as the FDA is concerned, but moreover they sell them under the name “Safety Latex”. They also had a blindfold/sleep mask labeled as “Sun Blocker”. This spurred some discussion about potential lines for expansion of their “Prudish Personal Products” line.

Perhaps they’ll expand their product line. But I don’t know what they’re so worried about. Everyone knows the dirtiest stores are West Marine and McMaster-Carr.


As the last and best Kentucky Colonel, I do not often feel new feelings. Our top scientists have demonstrated that there is only one feeling, and it is “Looking towards the frontier with content and disdain” (MacAllister, G. H.; Beauregarde, T. C. W.; Montclair, H. B. J. Kentuck. Studies. 185123, 8439). Any feelings which are not that are to be regarded as a plot of some kind, usually perpetrated by the Yankees, the Chinamen, or the serially and knowingly unkempt.

With this preface understood, please stand and acknowledge my surprise the other day, when I saw a gentleman slip on a discarded apple core and fall over, braining himself most heavily on a nearby balustrade. He had hardly collected his hat and crept off in shame when I found myself guffawing most readily, in a manner distressing to my dining companions. They tell me that I slapped upon my knee, and pointed at the shamed man, excoriating him in a manner which I generally find beneath myself. I was unready for such jollity, and immediately I searched around for the nearest Chinaman who had done this to me. Much to my chagrin, there were no Chinamen around, nor were there any accursed Yankees. Sirs and madam, my conclusion was that this feeling arose from within myself, a True and Honorable Kentucky Colonel.

I was conveyed promptly to the physician, but he could find no poisons or potions within or without my person, and as I had only consumed twelve Kentucky Bourbons, I was judged by all fine citizens present to be as sober as a morning rooster. There was no explanation readily available.

The next day, a gentleman of some repute, whose name I will conceal until such time as we come to understand this possible new feeling, confided in me that he had experienced much the same surprising emotion. This gentleman had been walking down a Lexington broadway when he chanced to see the wheel of a wagon fall off, whereupon the young boy riding in the back of the wagon was flung bodily into a nearby hedge, where he engaged in a most lively caterwauling. The gentlemen of some repute related to me that his reaction upon witnessing this mirrored my reaction to the gentleman falling down; he had a most hearty laugh, and then pointed at the young boy in the hedge and laughed even harder. No evidence of Northern trickery was found at the scene!

Determined to uncover the truth behind what had occurred, I spoke to a foreign scholar visiting the Kentuckyspire; if this feeling had been felt by overseas gentlemen of communitary standing, I was intent on learning of it. This foreigner, a Kaiser’s Own German named Klaus-Heinrich von Ehrlichmann auf dem Bülow, was as surprised as I was. He related to me that the Germans have a feeling that might be similar to the one I and the other gentleman experienced. It is derived from a concept known as “Nordiskhammenbonkfreude” in his own language, which I understood to mean “the internal joy one feels when one sees a Norwegian slip on a ham and fall”. The Professor Doctor claimed that the feeling that resulted was “Frohsinn”, or “Freude”, or perhaps “Heiterkeit”. These concepts are untrustworthy, but the parallels are clear to me, although Professor Doctor von Ehrlichmann auf dem Bülow insisted that there is barely any commonality, as a result of the particular way a Norwegian falls over. I am unfamiliar with any Scandinavians, and so I leave it to more traveled men to ascertain the veracity of the Professor Doctor’s claims.

Sirs and madam, after speaking to the German, and hearing of this “Nordiskhammenbonkfreude”, I am beginning to form my own chicken-fried conclusion. Although I, a Kentucky Colonel of the first rank, had not heretofore been aware of such events transpiring, I put it to you that a man falling over, aided as he was by carelessly-stored fruit, has awaken in me a second feeling of True Kentucky Origin. As much as it disgusts me to invoke their being, I believe the Northerners would translate the feelings suggested by the Professor Doctor as “funny”, or perhaps “mirth”. I put my Kentucky Colonelcy in your hands by making this report, friends, but the events described here suggest to me that it is time we add this second feeling to the Colonel’s Own Kentucky Imperium’s Book of Approved Feelings. Thank you for your time, sirs and madam, and I now cede the floor to debate.

The Terror Grill

Note: This is a JM Classique™ post. Photobucket are as bad at looking cool while rollerblading as I am, and broke image links from ten years ago, removing the images from old forum posts. Since I’m going through each old post and re-hosting the image on this server, I figured I might as well shove the post here, too. JM Classique™: Your Trusted Brand of Yestercrap.

The Terror Grill may seem like a common-or-garden labor operation, but observe the careful disregard for the safety of the stoker, coalman, meatmaster, and hoister, and the way in which they are kept in a unitary tower well-away from the director and his or her guests. This allows for each worker to do their job in a most efficient manner, as well as providing for good visibility for the director, not to mention easy control of insurrection.

The meat elevator, center-weighted for stability, is generously-sized, and can accommodate 10 cows, 30 pigs, or 60 birds. Provision of the lifting chains is sufficient for this weight, and the sealed geartrain means that the hoistman can make minute adjustments to the meat elevator’s level with minimal effort. Also note how the provision of a stoker leaves the coalman to concentrate on provision and distribution of fuel, without needing to be distracted by concerns regarding airflow.

Truly, the Terror Grill represents a new frontier for the gustatory dictator. Alternatives, like the Stanislaus Webelo’s Delight, overwork the coalman and put the director in a much more vulnerable position, while not having the meat accommodations of the Terror Grill.


Ah, I have built the terror-grill using Science, which is worse than Art for drawing barbed wire and loudspeakers and a proper four-corner lift mechanism and bracing and the machine gun, but conveys scale better. Note how the backside of both the fuel platform and meat platforms are slanted, for ease of dumping-into using the truck.

That nonchalant man in the sweater and khakis could be you.


Originally Posted by Turbio!
Though admittedly, casual slacks and a sweater seems a bit low-key for a Director of Meat.

I like to imagine that this is an off-day — maybe the grill servants have been conscripted to help with the construction of an aqueduct or subterranean vault. So he has some free time to spend with his kids, and they’re like “Can you take us to see the Terror-Grill?” And he wants to, sure, because of course in this society direction of grill operations will be their job one day, too. So he goes ahead to clean up the place, make sure there’s diesel in the dump truck, and hide the bodies of any stokers who couldn’t make it through the last night’s feast-preparation. So he finishes up with the big stuff, and starts dinking around with the Grill — making sure the geartrain is oiled, sighting the guns, and so on. But then the rickshaw with his kids in it pulls up and he can see their faces pressed up against the glass, looking up at the sheer height of the Terror Grill. It’s the best thing in the world to them. And he can appreciate that, because it’s the best thing in the world to him too. So this is more of a “Casual Vacation Day Terror Grill Director” look, like out of a detergent commercial.


This was on my mind a while ago, but I just remembered it while my bicycle was being crashed into by an extremely short Korean girl on another bicycle, who was on her phone and didn’t see me: there should be a Kinect San Francisco racing game.

There are two parts to this frankly incredible idea. The first is a cable car racing segment where you have to work the levers, and the soundtrack is “Choo Choo Ch’Boogie” on infinite loop. You would stand there pulling on your floor while being surrounded by jump blues and the screams of those caught in the path of your runaway cable car. You could decouple the cable to skip down hills or through parks, reconnecting at the bottom.

The second part, which is even more frankly incredible than the second, is an overhead-wire electrified bus racing segment. This would be the mostest coolest, especially once you leveled up and unlocked the articulated buses. So you’d be drifting in two simultaneous directions over the crest of a hill, smashing cars away with the tail segment, while desperately trying not to unhook the pantograph. And you’d be doing this by sitting there without a controller, waving your arms around like a nincompoop. The music will be a selection of the most avant-garde Ecuadorean ragechip that has yet been crafted in the boopmines of Saumarez.

An Prideful Nocturne

The Queen walked in wearing oily overalls, holding a fancy baby. “I’m a great-grandmother now. But team, we gotta get this sucker wavin’. The status quo will not do.” Ten functionaries in lab coats rushed forward, gently hoisted the child aloft, and marched into the next room. The sound of air tools permeated the palace for the next few hours while the Queen enjoyed a snifter of the finest Châteaux Soirée.

Suddenly, one of the functionaries emerged, with the baby dressed in a RN lieutenant’s uniform and swaddled in a papoose. “I got it to wave, ma’am,” he cried. The Queen held up a glossy 8″x10″ photo of an adoring crowd, and the young lieutenant responded by waving gleefully, palm-out. “No no, that’s a regular wave,” the Queen said. “It has to do our funny crap wave. Give me the child.” The functionary put the baby lieutenant down and scuttled off. The Queen looked at the baby. “Baby. You must wave. If you can’t, I will find someone who can.” She looked dolefully at the red-headed prince what dressed like a Nazi, who was seated in a plush armchair in the corner, and had been this whole time. The red-headed prince snapped off a perfect royal-family-funny-crap-wave, and smirked at the baby lieutenant.
The baby lieutenant knew that the pressure was on, and committed himself to a waving-training montage to the tune of Alice Cooper’s “No More Mister Nice Guy.” Baby Windsor-Crimea von Hohenstaufen-Horst-Wessel-Lied auf dem Bülow Saintemarie Smythe Smythe successfully completed the waving-training montage, and became King of Everything after only 84 years as a prince.

Never Forget, Ω/23

Yes, it is Ω/23. I entreat you not to forget that on this day only ten years ago, and simultaneously right now and all the times that have ever existed (which is infinite and yet non-real), the universe was collapsed into non-Euclidean space by Bayesian easterners.