Sheriff David Clarke is fond of wearing a flashy uniform, with lots of badges and crap splattered all over it. A man with military experience analyzes the stuff — it’s all meaningless garbage. I don’t think you can exactly call it “stolen valor”, though, since it’s not actually copies of anything militarily meaningful.
He never served in the military, either.
And guess what? I don’t think he’s a cowboy.
Fake all the way through. No wonder Trump likes him — they’re kindred spirits.
Yesterday was Norwegian Constitution Day, which, weirdly, communities all over the upper midwest of the United States celebrate every year. It’s all these damn immigrants who refuse to assimilate, don’t you know.
Unbelatedly, today is also the 37th anniversary of the Mt St Helens eruption. Seems like just yesterday I was sweeping ash off my car in Eugene and we were getting daily reports from wife’s family, who all lived in the Vancouver, Washington area.
Has any conspiracy theorist thought to link the two? Mad Norwegians expats in Washington getting carried away in their celebration, maybe?
We’ve lost a genuinely talented artist.
Also, Roger Ailes has dropped dead, but fuck him.
This is the Octoprof. Do not be shocked at its frightful appearance.
The Octoprof is a Lesser Blue-Ringed Octopus (Hapalochlaena maculosa), who is a postgraduate at the University of the Gulf of Mexico, Shallow Waters (not her native habitat; she’s Australian, but emigrated to be closer to larger populations of her research subjects). Her focus of study is the reproductive biology of the invasive terrestrial species Homo sapiens – an animal which has of course been a source of tremendous concern amongst terrestrial biologists over the past thousand-ish lunar cycles, especially those whose research has a conservation focus.
Owing to a peculiar birth defect which gives her a faint but noticeable resemblance to the detested Homo sapiens (she has a serious malformation of the mantle and of two of her tentacles, which gives her a ‘face’ and ‘hands’), the Octoprof feels a strong and frankly embarrassing affinity for her research subjects. She has been criticized heavily for this unprofessional attitude by her fellow academics, most of whom would understandably prefer all research funds concerning homo sapiens to be focused on eradication measures.
It’s going to appear at the Minnesota Fringe Festival, 3-13 August, and is apparently trying to raise money to attend the event. I hope it can raise a surplus and use the excess to pay for cosmetic surgery.
How does it breathe? I don’t see a siphon, unless it’s those two tiny holes in the front of its cephalon — they’re so small it certainly can’t use them for propulsion. Poor thing.
I tackled my big class, genetics, yesterday. Final exam graded, and final grades submitted to the registrar. Two smaller classes to wrap up, probably will get them done today, except that I’ve got another job to do: it’s time for the end-of-the-term lab audits by the discipline safety officer, who is…me. I get to spend my morning checking fire extinguishers and chemical waste containers and ticking check boxes.
Summer is almost here.
I’m all done with classes! But I still have a full schedule. Here’s my day:
Walk down to the gym, put in a half hour or so.
Walk to the coffee shop, plunk my butt down and drink a cup.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Grade.
Go home and pass out.
It is a good plan. It is the best plan.
They’re all British grifters, notable incompetents in their own country who came to America to exploit the cachet of an otherwise useless accent. These are people so stupid and obnoxious that people were mocking them ceaselessly at home, so they came to a country where gullible people think a British accent makes you sound intelligent. It’s a really familiar con, too.
So prevalent is the British mountebank in America that it has long been a literary trope. Perhaps the earliest specimens of the genre were the King and Duke from Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. Claiming to be disinherited British royalty, these two “rapscallions” swindle their way across the Midwest, conning gullible, small-town Americans with their schemes. A century later, F. Scott Fitzgerald described the type in The Great Gatsby. “I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about,” Nick Carraway observes while in attendance at one of Jay Gatsby’s magnificent parties. “All well-dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something…They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key.”
It’s too bad it doesn’t also work the other way. I think the impression an American accent leaves in the UK is that one is crass and loud and vulgar, which doesn’t help leave a good impression at all. If you’re going to try and dump Piers Morgan on us, it would only be fair if we could send you a Bill Maher, you know.
My daughter got me one of these infernal devices for Christmas, and I am becoming a devotee. Yesterday, I made split pea soup in it, tossing in 5 cups of water, two cups of split peas, a few carrots and tiny potatoes and a pinch of salt and garlic (garlic goes with everything), and zapped it in the pressure cooker for 15 minutes, and the results were perfection, the creamiest tastiest pea soup I’ve ever made. None of that overnight presoak nonsense, either.
I’m only mentioning it because I’ve been looking forward to day-old split pea soup all day long, and shortly I will be consuming it again. It was so quick and easy I’m going to have to fix it more often, like every day. If there are drool marks on this post, you know why.
OK, I might have to exercise a little more restraint than that, unless I am willing to be served divorce papers.
OPUS | Red Band Trailer from Drew Fenton on Vimeo.
It’s going for $100 million. I have no plans to sell my house, but if I do, it’ll be going for a lot less than that. I am going to steal one idea from them, though, and put up a video. It’ll be shot on my iPhone, and it’s going to feature me, in a speedo, painted gold and writhing on our couch. The offers will come pouring in.
My excuse is that my science advisors in college never told me it was a prerequisite. I think they just assumed that everyone in college in the 1970s was going to be stoned.
It’s never too late to start, though!
