O noes! Your Humble Scribe tends to get the next day's blog ready the night before, which is why some of the tenses might seem a little odd reading it the next day. However, instead of hammering out these words of wit, wisdom and wonder at nine post meridian, here I am at nine ante meridian. This is because 1) I'm on the later shift and don't end the nose-grindstone interfacing until 18:00, and 2) It being Wednesday, Your Modest Artisan does the weekly shopping and will probably not be able to sit down and type more wry wakeful wibble until 21:00.
Hence this. There you go, a valuable insight into the creative process the editorial staff here at BOOJUM! undergo, and probably the shortest Intro in years.
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| Enjoy this picture of a catering food-warmer! |
I'm giving the motley a day off until the x-rays and ultrasound pictures come back*.
Proof Positive That Some Parents Are Eeeeeevil
As you should surely know by now, Conrad knows little about sport and cares less about it. I have managed to steer clear of the ballfoot farrago known as 'Yuri' or similar, which is probably an event Dimya created to cheat his way to victory via offsidings. What say you, Dimya?
O dear. I think my cracks about the "Admiral Kuznetsov" made him cry.
ANYWAY this has nothing to do with Usain Bolt, who is a runner (?) of unknown variety. He is pretty famous, so much so that Conrad has heard of him, which still won't enable him to escape these allegations of reckless child torment a few years down the line. Art!
Saint Leo should be grateful that he didn't get dubbed "Crossbow", or even "Door". Not ever "Lightning", however, as that would give him an unfair speed advantage.
I Know I'm Being A Bit Whiney -
About Hydra teeth in my hiney (go look it up if you're not aware of how clever I'm being) but really! This is the third time in a row. There I was, looking in the Notes to "D-Day Through German Eyes" for that bit where a British Brigadier breaks a Teuton Field Marshall's baton over his head, and what do I come across? Another Note, which mentions an RAF Flight Lieutenant being sent to do a post-attack assessment at a port in Normandy, where he interviewed locals about what Teuton vessels were in port when the RAF came over and unloaded their glad tidings. And what was his name? Art!
R. F. Delderfield, that's whom. He was a novelist of some renown, and the novel above was made into a television series starring (I think) John Duttine. Of course he wrote scads of others that I remember seeing about the family home when I was very much younger. His service in the RAF merits about five words on Wikipedia. There must be more to this chap's life during the Second Unpleasantness than "" - after service in the RAF -". I may go a-digging. Once the Coincidence Hydra removes it's teeth from where I sit down.
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| Told you so |
Those Of A Sensitive Disposition -
Should probably not be reading BOOUM! as we are fond of atom-bombing the Moon, regaling you with tales of gory Darwin Award winners and encouraging the use of nitromethane as a cocktail ingredient**.
ANYWAY I came across an incredibly bizarre picture over on a Youtube channel run by Donut Operator, and am unsure where he sourced it from. Art!
Ladies, gentlemen and those unsure, allow me to present to you the ultimate Villain Accessory: The Baby Shield. All you need are twelve babies, a mile of duct tape and an aide to tie on the ones you can't reach yourself.
Well, that's the Big Idea at play here. Conrad, hair-splitting pedant that he is, begs to differ. For a start, where are you going to get 12 babies from? A string of baby-kidnappings will definitely get the old police nasal sensors a-sniffing. How do you get to your target destination? You can't simply sit in a car and drive, because no driver's seat ever designed will accommodate you - not to mention the risk of squishing or suffocating your Baby Shield en route.
Then there's mass. Say an individual baby weighs in at fourteen pounds, or one stone. You are now hauling one hundred and sixty eight pounds extra weight, or, in other words, about your own body mass.
Clearly our criminal mastermind cannot travel very far under his own traction, so I suspect he'd drive to the target location, set up a tent that abuts his car doors, has his accomplice tape the squalling Baby Shield to him whilst under canvas and only then does he venture forth to do the dirty deeds. I wonder if he was rashly trying to rob a bank? Because then he'd be adding yet more weight.
ANYWAY if he does indeed get away with committing his crime he can scarcely repeat his earlier process in reverse to remove the Baby Shield, as you can be certain the police will be watching with interest, and a lot of guns.
Of course, I could be overthinking this ...
BEWARE! BELOW BE SPOILERS!
IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW HOW THIS ENDS JUMP OVER THE FOLLOWING PICTURE REAL QUICK.
Ah, I do love a happy ending!
Finally -
Conrad picked out another obscure medieval word from "Sir Nigel" to explicate, this one being "DEODANDS", not to be confused with Brazilian all-round muso Deodato, whom you might recall from his 1974 instrumental fusion version of "Also Spracht Zarathustra (2001)" - no? before your time? Bah, see if I care!
ANYWAY - Deodands; this is a bit of a tricky one to get across. The word refers to an item or entity that has caused the death of a human being, and which is subsequently rendered up unto God, by which Your Cynical Scribe understands that the Church got their hands on whatever it was. Killer cow? They'll take it now!
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| Watch it, Daisy. One hoof out of line and the monks get a steak dinner |
And do you know what? With that we are ever so done!
* Don't worry, motleys are a hardy brand. Also cheap.
** Fine for aliens. Hom. Sap. - er - probably not
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