Come on, how often do you see a typographical error here on BOOJUM!? Never. Conrad can whip the English language into any fancy shape he likes, thanks to his ability with vocabulary, a keyboard and his innate creativity*.
Let us abruptly change tack, and instead focus on the fascinating field of -
PARCEL DELIVERY! Art!
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| I say! The infamous Brass Bra has been superceded by an <ahem> Titanium one**! |
Conrad is not sure what kind of coal Art has been chewing, to think that this epitomises 'Parcel Delivery'. Perhaps he's been sucking the marrow out of nuclear fuel rods, they're too rich for him and he gets delirious with bratitude, which is like attitude from a spoiled child i
ANYWAY Parcel Delivery. This is a major part of Conrad's current temp job, and a window onto dishonest people who steal other folk's parcels because they can. These pariahs are on a level with the pond-scum who steal other people's lunch from the office fridge, and wouldn't you know it, one bonkers South Canadian has come up with a solution. Art!
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| Mark the lark |
This fresh-faced young scamp is Mark Rober - so now you know where today's title comes from - and he is the closest thing you will ever encounter to a mad scientist. Not mad, merely bonkers. Mark used to work for NASA as an engineer, which means he has mad technical skillz (as the young folk say), as well as a well-appointed workshop. One day he decided to tackle the problem of what South Canadians (who can turn a telling phrase when they put their minds to it) call 'Porch Pirates'. That is, the lower-than-pond-scum (pond-bed?) who nick parcels from other's porches. Art!
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| GUILTY! |
Yes, we have covered this before, but Mark's work is so over-the-top that it well repays a revisit. He sat down and designed a decoy booby-trap that is awesome in how excessive it is. We can only be grateful that he's a law-abiding citizen and never went into business with Smokey Yurckin. Art!
This is what the greedy, light-fingered thieves discover when they open the parcel, probably clutching themselves in excitement at having nicked an item so obviously valuable. Then, they remove the cover ...
- and stare in bafflement at one of four cameras recording their evil maws, as squirt-guns deliver "Skunk Essence" and two pounds of glitter in the rotating container on top get flung out at high speed. Art!
After a few seconds red and blue lights start flashing and a pre-recorded message braying "THIS IS THE POLICE YOU ARE UNDER ARREST DO NOT MOVE" rings out. "Why don't they just put the cover back on?" I hear you ask. Because a couple of spring-loaded pins pop out when the cover comes off, preventing it from being put back.
Conrad is not sure DHL or Yodel would ever consider signing up to having decoy glitter-bombs used here in This Sceptred Isle, because the boring stick-in-the-muddies at the Health And Safety Executive would probably faint in coils were it to be suggested.
We can but dream, though.
Stephen King: The Greatest South Canadian Fabulist
One of my more recent finds whilst trawling the shelves of charity shops - known in South Canada as 'Thrift Stores' - was a Stephen King novel I'd not read, titled "The Institute". I seem to recall a similar sinister government agency inhabiting the celluloid lexicon of "Firestarter" except that was called "The Shop". Art!
One thing Ol' Steve does very well is convey a sense of small-town South Canada, those places outside the cities and the glitz and the glamour, where people may struggle to make a living, and Dog Buns! the man has a way of illuminating how different South Canada is from the rest of the English-speaking world, in striking little ways. What, for example, is a 'Night Knocker"? And before you jump in, no, nothing to do with the Tommy variety of knockers and also WASH OUT YOUR FILTHY MINDS!
The novel was published recently, in 2019, and it's still compelling and entertaining, so Ol' Steve's not lost his touch yet.
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| "Gee, thanks, Conrad!" |
"The Sea Of Sand"
When last we left this epic that infests the Fanfiction website, Lord Excellency Sur, the aristocratic and evil dictator, was worrying about how securely his head sat on his body.
What would the other aristocrats
of the coast think about one of their number who allowed a heretic to
escape? And an alien? It was many generations since an aristocrat
had been placed under detention and trialled.
Long enough for Sur to worry about being made an example, as a novel
form of entertainment.
The
escape wasn’t the worst part, either.
Two fugitives loose in the desert wouldn’t be a problem for long, as
thirst or hunger would kill them quickly.
These two had made their way along the coastline to the trans-mat
platform and been sent to Target World Seventeen. Not only that, they had contrived to drop two
tons of metal sled on the control console and render the whole equipment
useless. Useless! Until it could be repaired and tested.
Sur
picked up a kinked and gnarled metal bar from the table at his side, and took
out his anger on the ancient metal, twisting and scrolling the metal by brute
force.
The
trans-mat, useless again. At this
end. Just when Homeworld needed to send
Warrior detachments to the target and exploit it, the ability to do so had
deserted them. Already he had quintupled
the guard, and was now petitioning for more sleepers to be woken from
hibernation as extra guards. The
permission would be granted, he felt sure, since there were so many sources of
energy on the target world to be exploited.
He's not really a likeable character, is he?
"The War Illustrated"
We have now entered the pages of Edition 167, which was published in November 1943, so my synchronicity is a little off. Give me a week or two and we'll be chronologically side-by-side. Art!
Don't forget the BBC's valiant war correspondents would be broadcasting via radio, but if you wanted a bit of printed pulp you had to wait at least a fortnight before TWI turned up.
Here at top port you can see engineers getting rid of 'Dragon's Teeth', which were concrete obstacles intended to make passage difficult, except they had to be covered by fire to be effective and here - clearly not. To Starboard, ignoring the map, are more engineers demonstrating one of their vital yet horribly overlooked roles - bridging. The Axis would gratuitously demolish bridges as they retreated, hoping to inflict prolonged delays upon their pursuers, which became less and less of an issue as the Royal Engineers gained proficiency. These Sappers are actually hauling a raft across the river by hand, before a bridge has been installed.
At bottom left you have some redoubtable British Americans, sons of Toronto who are sorting out stay-behind-snipers. And opposite them are South Canadians, delivering a cargo of unlimited joy to their opponents.
Rather soberingly, this is November 1943 and the war still has another eighteen months to run.
Finally -
Your Humble Scribe has discovered that a fully-powered i-pod is essential in the office if one wishes to drown out the vapid hectoring of whatever local radio station the rest of the staff are listening to. DO THEY NOT UNDERSTAND!? These idiot DJs are more interested in a career in television than anything else, and see local radio as a stepping-stone to same. They have absolutely no interest in music.
Dog Buns! Did Sir John Peel die in vain?! Art!
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| If you dare ask who this man is, I WILL REMOTE NUCLEAR DETONATE THE LOT OF YOU! |
* I'm blowing my own trumpet here because I can
** Ah - yes - titanium for it's durability yet low density
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