The Independence of Scotland

So here's an opinion on this snakes nest: 

Nah, not really. I just get the feeling that this is what is expected of me. This is a bit more like it :

I'm sure Mr. Salmond is a nice guy just doing what he think is best, but this was a good opportunity. Also, in the unedited version, checkout the outrageous photobomb from the guy behind:

 It looks like he's watching the photographer as he's taking the photo of Mr. Salmond. It looks like the expression I wear when I watch a little child wanting to "clap ma dug" (pet my dog) while squealing '' A PUPPY!!!!!!!!!'' - a forced-tolerant expression alert for any signs that the child will put its fingers in the dog's eyes or mouth or anus. I'm not suggesting that members of the press should, or would want to, anal-probe the First Minister (though for a man of his age, prostate cancer is a real thing), but I am suggesting that the guy behind Mr. Salmond looks concerned about something and is trying to hide it. Maybe the First Minister has a killswitch which activates a concealed chem-injector rig and dumps 0.1L of pure adrenaline right into his bloodstream and turns him in to an unstable, frothing, homicidal, unstoppable killing machine. My god, it's the perfect plan.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen; lend me your haggis and Irn-Bru, that I may chow down righteously''

Nope, turns out he's just chillin', preaching to his homies. Like a modern-fucking-day jesus. That pose is reserved for fictional people.

Incidentally, something more serious is in the works, I just like to take opportunities for mockery.

I should probably add that these are not my photos and I do not own them or intend to imply that I do - I basically crudely swiped them from The Scotsman's website. They rightfully belong to The Scotsman, I believe, if the photographer has sold his rights to them. 

Telling the Internet, Part I

My brother and I were chatting tonight and abstracting ideas as we do. I forget how we got onto the topic of 'what would be the best way to upgrade your genitals'. After considering the practicalities of having a plastic surgeon remodel your junk into the shape of either the 'Oseburg' viking ship or a chainsaw, we wondered if it would be possible to have a soundbox implanted to get the 'revving' noise that is so characteristic and impressive.

Would you like to know more?

The Representatives of God and Cartoons

On the way to the train station that I go to to get to work, there is a church nearby. It's a baptist church (which seems invariably to mean that it's a depressing-looking broken-down cowshed) and it's tucked away down a side street. Every now and then there is a little old lady who stands on the confluence of the main street that leads to the station and that side street, and she seems to have taken it into her head to convert passers-by with dreary pamphlets about religion.

Today was one of those days.

Normally when this happens, I ignore her. I don't want what she's selling. But today, she stopped me, and not being in much of a rush, I let her. She seemed flustered, poor thing, that someone actually ceased to perambulate. She tried to save my soul.

She presented me with a badly-thought-out, badly-rehearsed, utterly predictable speech about how modern life was drawing me to Satan, and that that was a bad thing because I would surely burn in hell as a result unless I admitted Christ into my heart on the spot.

I'm not used to being proselytised at, nor preached to: it's rare in Glasgow for someone to harangue you in the street. I didn't have a snappy answer, or anything snarky or clever to say. I listened to her.