Showing posts with label offbeat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label offbeat. Show all posts

Friday, December 10, 2010

Dressing up

My article of 5 November 2010 entitled Vatican fashions [display] included a few images of the sartorial finery associated with the Vatican these days. Within the ranks of the Church, pedophiliac scandals are continuing as strongly as ever. Yesterday, figures were released concerning an innocent God-fearing nation, Holland, which now has a global tally of nearly 2000 explicit victims. In the sexual crime stakes, Holland is therefore running a close second to Ireland. Naturally, all the recent bad vibes concerning the Church mean that fewer and fewer pious young males dream of becoming cardinals. This has led to a surplus of all kinds of ecclesiastic outfits in the Vatican warehouses. Since the pope needs more and more money to pay off the countless people who are pursuing pedophiliac prelates in various countries throughout the world, he has decided to sell off a lot of the Vatican's excess fashion gear. Here's a very popular item, which is simply a recycled cardinal's robe that has been stitched up along the bottom:

Described in the sales literature as a "TV blanket with sleeves", it's ideal for watching the telly on cold evenings.

Let's move on to another intriguing example of exotic attire (obtained from the French Gallica website). Try to guess why this individual has decked himself out in what looks like a birdsuit:

Believe it or not, this was the uniform of medical doctors operating in the context of the great plague of Marseille in 1720. The long beak, containing aromatic substances, was intended to pierce the pestiferous air and prevent foul vapors from reaching the physician.

Talking of birdsuits, have a look at the exploits of this Russian guy:

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Dead but they won't lie down

What is there in common between Geneviève de Fontenay (former organizer of the Miss France system) and Laurent Gbagbo (former president of Côte d'Ivoire)?

No, neither of the two answers you propose is correct. Madame de Fontenay is not bald, nor does the West African ex-president get around in the bush wearing a broad-rimmed black-and-white hat. As for your vague suggestion that they might have established some kind of romantic or erotic liaison, I refrain from making any comment whatsoever on the strictly personal aspects of the lives of these two adults. On the other hand, if you had informed me that there was a variety of Ivory Coast potatoes known as the Belle de Gbagbo, I would have been obliged to accept that as a valid answer...

No, their common feature is not so complicated. Each of these two once-important personages has been formally replaced in a clear and democratic fashion, but neither of them is prepared to admit that she/he is dispensable. So, each of them has decided to carry on masquerading as if she/he were still in place. It's funny how certain individuals persist in believing, in spite of massive evidence to the contrary, that nothing should ever—or can ever—be changed in their existence.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Ugly scenario that won't hurt your nose

For a straight guy like me, this scenario might sound somewhat ugly, but other individuals would surely appreciate it differently. Imagine entering a small room and encountering the following fine fellows:

[Thanks to gizmag Emerging Technology Magazine for this story and photo.]

Their spokesman closes the door behind me and explains: "OK, dude, you're going to be a guinea pig in an experiment, because we got something we want to test. Are you ready?"

Of course I'm fucking ready. I'm cornered. What would be the sense of trying to resist? The four guys turn around and bend over, with their asses pointing up at me. At least it's it's them who are bending over, not me. I'm nevertheless starting to get worried, and I cry out stupidly: "What do you want me to do?"

"For Chrissake, just shut up," replies the spokesman, without changing his curious position, "and concentrate on the task that we're preparing for you."

Easier said than done. Concentrate on what, I ask myself? I hear the spokesman's quiet voice, addressing his comrades: "OK, fellows. Ready? One, two, three… FIRE!"

All hell breaks loose at a sound level. It's as if as a bomb had just been detonated inside the tiny closed room. At the same moment that my ears are flattened by the gigantic explosion, I can see curious waves erupting beneath the fine cloth of their underpants stretched across their backsides, and ripples spreading rapidly in various directions. These energetic waves and ripples moving over their underpants, combined with the boom, reminded me of those old TV documentaries showing the first tests of the atomic bomb at Bikini Atoll. In a flash, I suddenly realized that the four gentlemen had farted in harmony… well, let's say rather, in unison, simultaneously. God only knows why.

The four guys are now standing upright, and turned towards me. Spokesman: "So, tell us, what did you perceive?" [This question recalls my earlier blog about the philosophy of George Berkeley.]

Me: "Well, there was some kind of rumbling, and a big bang, and a series of waves and ripples…"

Spokesman: "And what else?"

Me: "Well, nothing else… except, maybe, a kind of enduring numbness in my ears, if you see what I mean."

Spokesman: "No nasal damage?"

Me: "No, my nose is fine. Thanks for asking."

It was only then that I suddenly became aware of the miracle that had just been enacted before my eyes, my ears and my nose. How can I put it? There was absolutely no stench of gunpowder. No smell whatsoever. It had been a totally odorless explosion.

Me: "Hey, that's fantastic. How come my nose got through that ordeal without injuries?"

Spokesman: "Since you've bothered to ask that question, dude, I'll tell you why you didn't smell anything. It's because the four of us are wearing the revolutionary fart-proof 4skins underwear, which soaks up all offensive odors before they invade space."

And you can read all about this amazing product at this website.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Stolen computers of Parisian journalists

Recently, there has been a spate of cases of Parisian journalists having their computers stolen in mysterious circumstances. It's all the more alarming in that the victims are generally engaged in writing about the world of politics.

Now, it goes without saying that this world of politics is so noble and free of malice that it's hard to imagine why on earth any political figure would stoop so low as to deprive a journalist deliberately of one of his everyday tools of trade.

It so happens that I'm working at present on a powerful iPhone app that should normally make the theft of computers a Thing of the Past. To be called Crook Zapper, my app will necessitate the insertion of a tiny element of vicious hardware alongside your built-in webcam (located just above the screen of an iMac). As soon as an iMac is removed unlawfully, the owner merely uses his iPhone (assuming that it has not been stolen also) to activate the Crook Zapper system, which then operates automatically in a series of several well-defined steps.

— First, the webcam takes photos of the thief and sends them back to the iPhone of the rightful owner of the stolen iMac.

— Next, the Crook Zapper app uses a straightforward GPS technique to determine the exact geographical location of the stolen iMac, and this information is promptly forwarded to the rightful owner.

— Finally, the third step necessitates an OK that can only be delivered by the iPhone of the rightful owner. You'll forgive me if I don't provide you with an exact technical description of the ensuing events, because my invention needs to be protected. Basically, the tiny hardware device installed alongside the iMac's built-in webcam uses an artificial intelligence approach to focus upon a spot between the thief's eyes, whereupon it fires what might be described as an offensive nanodart, which is so small that its point of impact could not be seen (in a mirror) by any part of the thief's visual system that might have survived intact… if you see what I mean. All that remains is for the Crook Zapper app to send a "mission accomplished" message to the rightful owner… who can then accompany police and an ambulance vehicle to the place where the brave iMac is waiting to be retrieved.

Will Steve Jobs accept my Crook Zapper app when it's finished and tested, and market it through iTunes? I can't imagine why not.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Magic musical moment of torrid romance

On 19 November 2010, I changed slightly the content of this post so that it points to an operational copy of the video. The initial YouTube presentation of this masterpiece disappeared overnight.

Warning: If you have any underage children looking over your shoulder, shoo them away before playing the following sexy French video entitled Je t'aime, which can be translated into the language of Shakespeare as "I love you".

Maybe I should have warned you to turn down the volume before blasting your neighbors with that powerful suburban disco stuff.

These young artists apparently refer to themselves as Darkan and Demeter. These were the names, respectively, of a Celtic rock group and a Greek goddess. A French journalist referred to them by a quaint expression: a pair of gherkins.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Head needs to be screwed on

My native land, Australia, wasn't settled by European colonists before the end of the 18th century. So, Down Under, you won't find any ancient Gothic cathedrals, or stuff like that. But we've got a lot of Big Things.

[Click the big fish to see a Wikipedia article on Australia's Big Things.]

One of my favorites was the Big Banana in Coffs Harbour, which existed already when I was a youth in nearby Grafton.

There's no doubt some kind of deep psychological reason why Aussies have thought it worthwhile, if not necessary, to create this set of ugly objects. Maybe, one day, somebody will produce a doctoral thesis in this domain. Meanwhile, it's amazing—a minor Aussie miracle—that no enterprising outback township has got around to making a name for itself by erecting the Big Prick. Talking of miracles, I trust that devout Catholics are already working on a project for a Big Mary. [If one or other of the above-mentioned projects were to become a reality, I would surely deserve some kind of royalties.]

In the small Polish town of Świebodzin, the citizens have donated a lot of cash to build the Big Jesus. They've done this for two main reasons. On the one hand, they love Jesus. On the other hand, they reckon that this 35-meter high monstrosity—the Biggest Jesus in the World—could create touristic revenues for the township. When I observe this marvelous photo of the Lord's head being lifted into position, ready to be screwed on, I'm ashamed of myself for having sinful thoughts. I can't help imagining a nightmare scenario in which opponents of the giant statue (if indeed such insensitive individuals did in fact exist) would use their imagination to organize an apocalyptic explosion to remove this eyesore from the rural landscape. Naturally, I can't really imagine why terrorists of any faith (or, worse still, atheists) would go to the trouble of attacking this splendid work of art and civil engineering. But one never knows. Sadly, the world is full of crazy individuals…

Talking of crazy individuals who need to get their head screwed on right, here's a fabulous case study from the inspired world of US politics. I'll let you find out for yourselves who he is, where he comes from, what he does for a living, and what he's on about.



This guy impresses and inspires me. I know it's irrational, but I imagine him taking advantage of his political connections and his spiritual convictions to set up a vast US-based multinational named BTC: the Big Things Corporation. It would offer a broad range of expert construction projects ranging from giant statues of saints and gurus through to fake Gothic cathedrals for banana republics, without forgetting mammoth objects of all kinds for the prosperous Australian market. I'm assuming that, if only it were screwed on right, this fellow would have a head for Big Business.

POST-SCRIPTUM: This is a good context in which to include this charming image of a Big Bum: a statue in the nearby city of Romans.

A friend explained to me recently that this personage is called Fanny, and she belongs to the traditions of the French game of bowls in this region. If I understand correctly (which I probably don't), the captain of the winning team has to go forward ceremoniously and kiss tenderly this inviting arse.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Party games

Really, I can't understand why journalists have been making such a fuss about an innocent party game that Silvio Berlusconi apparently plays with distinguished young guests who've had the honor of being invited along to one of his elegant dinner evenings. To my mind, after serious and lengthy dining-table discussions about current affairs, culture and so forth, there could be no more friendly way of relaxing than a joyous 60-minute session of Bonga bonga. And I'm not at all surprised that this kind of light-hearted pastime would greatly amuse an intelligent young student such as Ruby, the lovely niece of a statesman from the southern shores of the Mediterranean.

Curiously, journalists have made no attempt to describe this party game… either because they think it's of no importance, or (more likely) because they're clueless in this domain. As a youth in a rural city in Australia, I was invited along to countless charming dinner evenings that ended inevitably in a bit of Bonga bonga… which had rapidly replaced Bridge as the most fashionable game among the refined bourgeoisie of that sophisticated city. It was such a simple fun-filled game, with few rules, that everybody loved playing it. In a dimmed room, a female guest would kneel down on the floor, with her face blindfolded and buried in the cushions of a lounge chair, so that she couldn't see the individuals who were approaching her from behind. One by one, the gentlemen would move behind her with an outstretched finger. The young lady could reach around behind her and grab the finger, but she couldn't actually see whose finger it was. The aim of the game was to guess which man had the longest finger. While fondling the finger, the young lady would chant rhythmically:

Binga binga. Here's a finger.
Bonga bonga. Is it longer?

Then she would give us her estimate of the length of the finger, in inches and fractions of an inch. (We hadn't yet got around to using the metric system.) And this estimated length would be noted down on paper. When all the gentlemen had participated in the game, the girl's blindfold would be removed, and she would get up and read out her estimates, one by one, with the identity of each man now revealed. As you can imagine, this gave rise to much mirth, because often the girl would make a mistake, and say that such-and-such a man with a small finger seemed to have a very long one, or vice versa, and so on.

Somebody made the intriguing suggestion that the Italian president first encountered this parlor game in the Bedouin tent of the great leader of Libya. Now, I'm wondering if maybe there's some kind of gigantic confusion here, between two rather different games. Back in the Antipodes, there was another amusing game with a slightly different name: Bugga bugga. It was played, not with young women, but with sheep, and the nature of the game was quite different to Bonga bonga. Maybe, on the shores of the Mediterranean, it has been played with goats. I simply don't know. But it would be a dreadful shame if ignorant journalists were in fact confusing Bonga bonga with Bugga bugga

Monday, October 4, 2010

Technology world is super sexy

I hope this video is still available:



Can you see it?

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Why are they all weeping?

The national French library has an excellent online service named Gallica. Among countless treasures of all kinds, they propose issues of the French daily Petit Journal illustré from 1884 to 1920. The following illustration appeared on the front page of that publication dated May 6, 1928:

Everybody is weeping… including a policeman and a horse. Try to guess why all the tears?

Answer: An accident had just occurred involving a truck transporting produce from the old Paris food markets known as Les Halles. It had been hit by another truck, and its load of vegetables had been scattered all over the road, and crushed by other vehicles. The first truck had been transporting a load of onions.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Insanely determined candidate

The following video shows a Republican guy named Phil Davidson making his candidate's speech for the county treasurer's job:‬



It would be fabulous if this emotional fellow were to be the partner of ‪Sylvester Stallone‬ in an umpteenth Rocky film.

The basic gist of the scenario is obvious. In the wake of the Balboa affair, the heroic pugilist is invited to take on a nice well-paid regular job as the treasurer of‪ Stark County, Ohio‬. Everything's fine… up until the arrival on the scene of this crazy ‪Davidson‬ opponent, who's determined to steal Rocky's job. Naturally, the whole business ends up getting settled in the ring. I'll need a bit of time to figure out the precise elements of the plot. Possible title: Rocky Brain-Damaged.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Daughter dated a Beatle

While writing my post about symbolic destruction, and searching through my personal archives for Beatles data, I came upon this old photo showing my daughter Emmanuelle surrounded by the Fabulous Four:

In our family, for reasons that should be obvious, we rarely talk about this fleeting romantic episode. The individuals involved have now grown older, and created new lives. To call a spade a spade, it's up to Emmanuelle alone (or maybe Ringo), to reveal—if they so desire—the exact circumstances in which this apparently tender relationship once sprang into existence.

In any case, as a father, I consider that it's none of my business to delve into the possible relationships that may or may not have existed between my children and various celebrities.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Bizarre events in Paris

In August, many regular residents of Paris go away on vacation, and the city is left to tourists. For a month, the banks of the Seine have been transformed into a vast beach, thanks to a fleet of trucks that dumped 1350 tons of sand on the macadam.

On the water, as at any self-respecting beach resort, there are canoes, kayaks, yachts, row boats and pedalos. But no swimmers, because the quality of the water is not yet fit for that… in spite of the promise made in 1977 by Jacques Chirac, when he was mayor of the capital.

This summer, the Seine has been the scene for two mysterious happenings. First, at the start of a warm evening, an empty Austrian tourist bus plunged spontaneously (or so it appears) into the river and disappeared from view. The next day, the carcass of the vehicle was dragged up into shallow water.

More recently, a big barge full of 355 tons of gravel (similar to the one you see, out in the middle of the river, in the following photo) suddenly sank in the same vicinity where the tourist bus had taken a bath.

Before the barge could be refloated, the gravel had to be removed. For the moment, I don't know whether or not this material has been used to extend the artificial Paris beach in a way that would no doubt appeal to English visitors (accustomed to gravel beaches).

Theories are arising concerning the possible existence of some kind of mysterious Bermuda Triangle effect in the vicinity of the Eiffel Tower. In particular, Paris authorities are worried (although they won't admit it publicly) that the celebrated landmark tower might decide to topple over spontaneously and take a dip in the river. In Seine…

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Onion News Network

There's some nice funny stuff on this website. Click the banner to see a great piece of live reporting concerning a landslide in the Philippines.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Humor and age

I think it's good when people who are getting on in years retain a vibrant sense of humor. That's the case for my neighbor Madeleine, for example, who still gets a kick out of playing pranks. At the recent dinner for senior citizens of Choranche [display], Madeleine offered me the glass of white wine that had been poured out for her husband, who no longer drinks alcohol. Seeing that I appreciated this liquor, Madeleine soon got around stealthily to placing no less than three similiar glasses on the table in front of me. Tackling the first one, I discovered that Madeleine had simply filled empty glasses with water. That's a typically innocent prank that delights Madeleine... and I'm convinced that this kind of juvenile fun plays a part in preventing her from ever growing old. The other aspect of Madeleine's behavior that endears her to me is her taste for gossip, and tales about neighbors. That too prevents Madeleine, I'm sure, from growing old in spirits. How can you possibly accept the effects of aging when you still have so many wicked anecdotes to relate concerning folk in the commune? That kind of preoccupation necessitates an alert mind and, above all, an alert tongue. Besides, in the case of Madeleine, I'm joking when I use the adjective "wicked" to describe her anecdotes, because the amazing thing about the gossip of Madeleine (who has remained a fervent Catholic, imbued with pious and charitable intentions) is that her words could never even hurt a church mouse. It's an art of kindhearted tale-telling that Madeleine no doubt acquired and practiced over a period of decades, when she was running single-handed an old-fashioned grocery shop in the main street (well, you could almost say the only street) of Pont-en-Royans.

Personally, I've always liked to drag along with me a certain sense of humor, without ever knowing with certainty whether it might or might not be shared by those with whom I happen to be in contact... such as readers of this blog, for example. I consider, rightly or wrongly, that there's no better place for joking than in those modern tabernacles of society that are our supermarkets, both tiny and gigantic. I've considered for ages that the authentic reincarnation of the Vestal Virgins of Antiquity are the supermarket cashiers, particularly those whose smile and words would appear to be made out of plastic. (I'm joking unfairly. I've often been totally infatuated by certain local supermarket cashiers who have appeared to me as Martian nymphs within our consumer society.)

This afternoon, at the small supermarket in St-Jean-en-Royans, my shopping list was short, comprising merely two items: a glass bottle of white wine and a plastic bottle of bleach.

At a financial level, this transaction cost little, and I should have kept my mouth shut instead of wasting the time and intellectual energy of the Martian virgin who served me. But my extrovert behavior was encouraged, I know, by a silly anecdote that has always intrigued me.

The great French TV personality Léon Zitrone once came near to death when he got up in the middle of the night, feeling thirsty during a stay at his daughter's place in the country, and downed a bottle of bleach. This story has marked me indelibly, but in a funny illogically-backwards way. Whenever my daughter drops in at Gamone, I make sure robotically that there's no bleach (or avocados, for that matter) hanging around in the refrigerator...

Be that as it may, I felt mirthful, this afternoon, when I approached the Intermarché virgin with my two bottles.

William (tongue-in-cheekishly): Remind me, please. Which is the one for cleaning my sink?

Supermarket virgin (seriously, indicating the plastic bottle of bleach): This one, Sir.

William (pointing to the bottle of Alsatian wine, and wishing to appear more stupid than ever): So, I shouldn't use this...

Supermarket virgin (realizing that she's confronted by a terrible Alzheimer case): No, Sir, it would be silly to clean your sink with this fine wine.

William (realizing that his joke has backfired): OK, I must be careful.

Fortunately, the woman behind me in the queue burst out laughing. She, at least, would be a potential Facebook friend, or maybe even (who knows?) an Antipodes blog follower.

What we need is some kind of tangible smiley badge that could be worn by old humorists like me when we queue up, to pay, in supermarkets. Instead of identifying my political clan, my social affinities or my ethnicity (as was the case for the disgusting yellow star imposed upon French Jews during the frightful Pétain era), the badge would warn people: This silly old bugger is a dangerous joker.

Bad list of e-mail addresses

Spammers sell lists of e-mail addresses to entrepreneurial individuals who want to become spammers, and earn piles of cash by selling their shit through the Internet. Here's a typical case: a fellow named Edouard (at least that's what it says on the e-mail spam I just received) who's trying to peddle magic stuff that will make a woman's excess body fat (cellulite) dissolve into thin air.

I'm almost tempted to reply to Edouard, to let the poor guy know that there's surely something amiss about his list of addresses of potential customers. To my mind, the spammer has been screwed. Maybe he has paid a lot of money for nothing more than a list of bloggers, or rural hermits, or atheists, or wannabe reincarnated seven-day bike-riders. I've often wondered whether female Internauts are pestered, like us chaps, by offers of products capable of lengthening their penises.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

MacLastSupper

Let me preface this article by saying that I think we have here an excellent candidate for the next Ig Nobel Prize [explanations].

Two brothers—one a marketing and economics professor at Cornell University, and the other a professor of religious studies at Virginia Wesleyan College—decided to examine 52 famous paintings of the Last Supper with a view to determining whether the size of food helpings has evolved over the last millennium. Well, the answer would appear to be an emphatic giant-sized yes. And they suggest that this might explain why many people today (at least in the USA) are gulping down bigger portions of food, served up on bigger plates. In other words, this study of religious art has provided them with God-given evidence for the dawning of the Age of Obesity.

The study, to be published in the next issue of the International Journal of Obesity, indicates that, over the last ten centuries, the size of food helpings in Last Supper paintings has increased by 66 percent. Not surprisingly, the diameter of Last Supper plates has increased to exactly the same extent. Curiously, the size of the hunk of bread accompanying the meal seems to have increased by merely 23 percent... which no doubt gives weight to the Biblical saying about man not living by bread alone.

To my mind, this study offers some great ideas that could be exploited by the marketing people in good Christian fast-food restaurants. In bars and pubs, there are so-called "happy hours" when the price of drinks drops considerably. In restaurants of the kind I've just evoked, there could be "multiplication hours" during which lucky customers would receive extra helpings of fish and bread, and "Cana hours" during which the Coke cups of a happy few would be refilled, free of charge, with Californian wine.

I'm proud to think that, in spite of my excessive age and atheism, I can still come up with a few great ideas for America.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Postmodernist presentation of transmedia

Insofar as the following impressive video presentation of the fascinating transmedia concept is in French, you might be tempted to imagine that you would understand it better if you happened to understand French. In fact, that's an illusion. The ideal way of appreciating this tiny didactic and artistic masterpiece is to open wide your mind and let the messages flow in, in their primeval impactive globality (if you see what I mean), as a pure transmedia phenomenon.



Clearer now? Did you like the fleeting image of a tweet in the sky?

PS Seriously, this is the work of a talented French media production company called Les Raconteurs (storytellers).

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Cosmic cheesiness

David Pogue (with over 1.3 million Twitter followers) has pointed us to this masterpiece, billed by many as the most cheesy video of all time:



Carl Lewis is no doubt in the process of losing his record to the Trololo Man, whose moving performance can be appreciated here thanks to English subtitles:



There's a rumor that this great Russian musical artist will be setting out soon on a gigantic world tour.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Cheese power

Whenever my lovely friend Corina decides to put up a video on her blog, I'm inevitably delighted, and tempted to steal her suggestions. [I've spent the last few weeks trying vainly to liberate myself from the haunting tenor voice of the Scorpions' vocalist.] I think Corina and I share the same sort of appreciation of humor, music and other things. Here's her latest delightful choice:



This video is all the more relevant in that Corina tells me that she's thinking of settling down in this cheese territory.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Revised top ten

This is excellent Hitchens: