Shelter Protocol

When the Atomic War strikes and Armageddon is upon us, rules of etiquette and decorum still apply.

While it is important not to allow your personal bomb shelter to become over-crowded by waves of your panicking neighbors who came less prepared, one should remember not to allow the situation to get away from oneself. Brandishing a weapon might become necessary at some point, but even the lethal force is rarely considered polite. Never start with the shotgun, simply explain that the shelter only holds so many and there simply is not longer any room.

Never resort of vulgarity. Screaming “Back off motherfucker, or I’ll spray you all over the landscape” rarely makes anything better and never earns us any friends. Instead a simple “If required, I will shoot you… motherfucker” spoken in a calm and steady voice will be sufficient in most circumstances.



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Interesting Facts: Callisto

Callisto, the fourth moon of Jupiter and the third moon of Saturn (by weight) is actually a former asteroid that was caught and tamed by the gas giant’s gravity. It was originally a small scrap of rock, but has filled out quite nicely under the care of a loving owner. Callisto is actually the fifth name this moon has had. Each society to discover it has given it a different name, although all of those names have turned up as characters on Xena Warrior Princess.

Scientists speculate that below the surface of Callisto lies the biggest depository of raspberry jam existent in the galaxy. By 2036, NASA hopes to launch a probe that will be able to drill into the candy shell of Callisto can extract the jam for immediate retrieval. It’s hoped that the jam will arrive before the raspberry blight, which will wipe out the species in 2051. Said blight being long planned by the powerful Cherry Confederation who have long been tired of Raspberry’s popularity with the jam buying public.




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New Cocktails: It Sure Does Burn

It’s an odd thing, gaining a reputation in the international underworld community as a great bartender. Anyone can put a bullet in a public leader, or garrote a troublesome witness, but knowing how to make a good Mai Tai is something akin to magic. It can get you out of a lot of trouble, if people know about your skills. No one wants to kill a mixologist, or a cook. You can read a book, or listen to an mp3 player, or watch a dirty movie on your phone, all the other old skills have been taken over by technology. People sitting around an old barn outside Belgrade waiting for their contact need to eat and they need to drink. Even if you’ve betrayed people in the past, all can be forgiven when you take what had been thought of as meager supplies and deliver a tasty meal. If you can also mix the local paint thinner with whatever other liquids are at hand and produce something that doesn’t make people despair of life with the first sip, you will be like a protected species.

So I was in that barn outside Belgrade, and OF COURSE I’d hidden the money away. If I’d given it to that lot they’d just have spent it on the thug equivalent of sweets and comic books. No, far better it stay in my hands, I think we can all agree on that. The thing is, the guys I was working with had these... ideas about people not sharing out the wealth. Fortunately, I knew about this ahead of time. While we waited I made them up this little cocktail and got them to drink it.

1 measure vodka
1 measure Benzine
1 measure Gin
1 measure Hydrogen Peroxide
1 measure Ronsonol Lighter Fluid

Place a glass pitcher no metal or plastic please, onto the bar. Pour each ingredient into the glass carefully and put in the refrigerator. It’s best if no one actually sees you mixing this, because if they knew what you were up to they’d kill you. And considering what you’re up to, they have a point.

Stir with a wooden spoon, to avoid any possible corrosion. You’re dealing with some nasty stuff, after all.

Now, when it comes to service you probably will only have access to some kind of bar glasses but really you want martini glasses if you can get them. Pour the concoction into the chilled glasses, and stir with a peppermint stick three times counter clockwise.

Now, it’s at this point that you get a little unconventional. Wait for everyone to have a sip. If you’ve mixed right, it will be unpleasant for them, but they won’t actually notice that you’ve poisoned them. You take out the pencil torch you’ve been keeping in your pocket and light yours up. It’s at this point you hurl the rest of the pitcher’s contents at your befuddled former compatriots. The whole thing should go up quite magnificently and they may spill some of their own drinks and that’ll add to the blaze. It’s at this point that you grab the pistol under the bar and start shooting. Now I used a Walther P99 but anything with a reasonable magazine capacity can be brought to the party. Remember, you are double crossing armed thugs who have killed many times, now is not the time to pretend you never miss or that a Baby Browning .25 is as good as a Glock 9mm.

How Hipsters Taught Me The Beauty of The World

Scientists say that complaining is a part of life. It’s unavoidable, because it’s a necessary part of existence. It’s chemical, people MUST complain about things. If you have nothing to complain about, life ends, so you must find whatever tiny irritant exists to have something to complain about.

Now, we’re supposed to hate hipsters, despise them in fact. We’re supposed to call them shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space for being the total shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space that they are. BUT WAIT! Just hang on a moment, give me a few minutes of your time and let me tell you about how Hipsters changed my mind about life, the universe and everything.

In 2008, Polaroid (or what remained of it) announced it would no longer be making instant film. The hipsters, true to their rather worthless form, treated this as the sign that the apocalypse had begun. They rushed to LiveJournal and tumblr and bitched and moaned about how unfair it was. Oh the howls, oh the moans, of the gnashing of teeth and wailing into the wind my dears, my darlings.

“Oh shut the fuck up!” cried many a denizen of this fine internet.

“First World Problems!” Declared others in a firm and steady voice.

BUT! If I may, allow us to examine this from another angle, I think you may see that actually these hipsters carry with them the promise of heaven.

YEAH! I said it. Promise of Heaven.

Think about this for a moment, if you will. Or rather, dig if you will the picture...

This life is a sad veil of tears, yeah? But there are, in mythology, beings called messengers or envoys. These beings enjoy a more joyous and perfect life. In Greek, the word used to describe such perfect creatures is ángelos. They bring us glad tidings, they bring us hope. We can look towards these creatures, some beautiful, some hideous, some both, and know that perfection can be achieved.

Now consider this for a moment. There are mortals who enjoy lives so encapsulated by bliss, so crystalline and flawless, so utterly and completely perfect that the only thing, THE ONLY THING, that they have to complain about is that an economically unviable product, from a bankrupt company, was no longer going be to available for their use. The rest of their time is spent liking things before they were cool, buying albums they bought on itunes a months ago on vinyl, and growing their facial hair. We’re still complaining about pain, physical pain. We complain about crippling depression, bigotry, sickness, and the simple basic difficulty of getting over the betrayal of loved ones. We are too much of this earth, ever too much in the sun.

While we concern ourselves of these base and low concerns, these... these... these plaid clad angels with ugly horn rim glasses and handle bar mustaches walk among us. Yes, you might argue that there is a reason people stopped having handle bar mustaches, but they disagree and besides it took her so much effort to grow. Who are we to disagree? They are, as I said angels, walking abroad among us in this world.

YES! Brothers and Sisters! I say unto you, that these angels are a promise of a better world! One where the only thing we have to worry about is Polaroid film and someone, somewhere, liking something before we liked it. They are a PROMISE my dears, my darlings. They live in a world of unutterable beauty, of inexcusable perfection. They are our angels.

In point of fact, they’re better than angels. Real Angels are like... Wheels of Fire! With a giant eye looking out from the middle. If one of those showed up, you’d think Sauron had just showed up and you’d just sit there trying to scream, but no words would come out. At least with a Hipster you know the reason you’re not saying anything is because you’re biting back a lot of comments.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this is satire, that I’m being comical. That’s a reasonable supposition, particularly if you’ve read me before, but no! I’m being serious.

The world is a beautiful and glorious place, and all I had to do was to look at it like these mindless creatures, who are so far above that even thought is beyond them. They live in a jewel of perfection of a world, and we just need to work hard and achieve that level for everyone. There is a place so beautiful it causes rancor and endless cynicism for its inhabitants. Don’t you see? We no longer need the gods, we don’t need to look forward to heaven. We, and these beautifully hideous creatures, we can form such a place.

My dears, my darling, do you know what that’s worth? Heaven can be a place on earth. They say in Heaven, love comes first. In 2010, The Impossible Project started producing new lines of Polaroid Cameras and film for the old cameras. Heaven, my dears, my darlings, is a place on earth.

I will forever find comfort in these beautiful, mad, frightfully stupid bastards. You can too. Maybe you were afraid before, I’m not afraid anymore.



It should be said, when I explained this to Syd she opened a browser and brought up this image...



So, maybe it’s not a universal theory.

New Cocktails: Spaghetti Western

Gonna be square with you, there is no interesting story to how this one came about. I was sitting on the Drax Space Station with Commandette Debbie, and you can only bang so often before “We be doin’ it in zero G” looses it’s novelty (14 times, in case you’re wondering) and you just settle in for some old Spaghetti Westerns which you can watch because all the movies were being fired into that satellite we’d “appropriated” for the purposes of aiming a laser guided bomb into... well you heard all about that I’m sure. Anyway, there was a faux gravity bar, spinning Babylon 5 style up there. As we were watching the movies, I made this cocktail inspired by the viewing material. After we blew up the station and landed back on Earth, she asked me to make her another drink and as I was dealing with that whole plot convenient amnesia thing and could only remember that one drink, I perfected it while we waited for rescue from Borneo.

2 parts Tequila
1 part Lime Juice
1 part Rum
1 part Limoncello

Put ice in a glass and build cocktail with lime juice, limoncello, rum and then tequila. Serve with Mexican/Italian fusion dishes.

If the Food Didn't Kill You, You Probably Cooked it Fine.

People get very defensive about articles like these, you know why? Because they resent someone stating their preference as solid fact. And I think they REALLY resent someone who, to them, is completely unproven telling them that they can't cook. I have never heard of this person before in my life, why the hell should I listen to them? No, really. I've never heard of them, and at least the way the article quoted them makes them sound like a complete dickhead.

I'm gonna throw it down right here. I'm gonna say it. There is no right or wrong way to cook an egg. There is a preferable method that will yield the result you are looking for, but there is really no wrong way. This is very much an issue of tone and I'll bet 4 out of 5 people who commented on this article didn't really read it, they just reacted to the smug, irritating tone. Some of them clearly only read the kind of offensive headline and wrote the whole thing off from there. Because being told you're doing it wrong is an instant way to get people worked up though, and works as effective click bait, they went with that. Problem is, people are now not going to buy this person's book, because they think he's an asshole who tells you that you can't cook. And people are basically tired of being told they're doing everything wrong by worthless foodies who are a blight on humanity. And how hard would it be to say "This is a great method that you might like." instead of "UR DOIN IT WRONG!" which annoys people? It's not just this article, almost every other food article is dedicated to telling you that you're either cooking wrong, or eating wrong, or dining out wrong, or having the wrong thing, and I just think about my Grandma, who would have put a stiletto between your third and fourth rib if you told her she shouldn't be eating what she's eating.

And, allow me to state for the record, if you served my grandmother the runny-ass eggs this person is suggesting, she would have garroted you. Grandma didn't fuck around when it came to breakfast and I still have a scar across my left shoulder from the day she grazed me with a .22 for over cooking her bacon. Light and fluffy, that's the scrambled egg my grandmother showed me. And when the person teaching you killed six men with a ball peen hammer the night before, let's just say you pay attention. Are grandma's eggs cooked wrong? No. Was Grandma wrong? A little impetuous perhaps. I still maintain those last two were trying to surrender. However, I loved my grandma too much to deny her the joy of smacking their heads like grapefruit. Grandma loved the old ultra-violence so.

Anyway, the method explained here is fine, but don't think it's the one true way. I can take either to me honest, but that's because I'm agreeable. Always be agreeable, no one wants to try and kill the guy who agrees to things and once hung a Bulgarian on a meathook for seven hours patiently and agreeably watching him bleed out. To be fair, he did have that coming, and I was doing the whole smiling and nodding and saying "Yes, for the love of god." bit which worries people to no end when you can make it go seven hours. You don't kill my protegee, them's the rules.

There is no one true way in cooking. Cook things the way you want to eat them, learn different methods so you can find out what you like, and leave people who tell you that you're eating or cooking wrong tied to a tree in the desert and listen for them coyotes. That's what Grandma would ave done to this guy. Grandma loved to hear a man being torn apart by coyotes. She was a cruel woman, and deeply unfair in her cruelty.

Love you grandma, miss you everyday.

Etiquette: Human Sacrifice Ritual

When sacrificing a virgin to your dark gods in exchange for unholy powers, always remember the young lady in question may not be familiar with all aspects of the ritual. If you’ve had the girl retrieved from a nearby village the moment of blood shed may in fact be the first she’s hearing of the while thing. You need to always be patient and understand that any screams for help are only as a result of her lack of understanding for your mad need for power.

Never shout at the virgin or make her feel that her reluctance to give up her life is in anyway causing you the slightest bit of difficulty. Just because you’re going to rip out her heart and rape her corpse, that’s no reason to cease being anything but a gentleman.



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