IndicAted And Vindicated!

As You Should Surely Know By Now

Your Humble Scribe is both a spelling and grammar Nazi of the very worst kind.  I cannot help it and there must be some fancy multi-syllable word that completely exonerates me because it's due to <insert Latin word ending in '-ium' here>.

     One person who has (mostly) escaped my Righteous Raging Rancour is Citizen Trump, because, frankly, he's low-hanging fruit.  I bet he still insists that 'Covfefe' is a secret MAGA codeword only truly understood by his devotees thanks to their secret language, etcetera - rather than admit it was a typo.  Then there's this -

     The spell-checker didn't bring it up because it's a proper word, and DJ Tango was too enraged to do anything as simple as review before posting.  Well, now it's out there forever as a howling typo - unless, that it's a secret MAGA codeword only truly understood by his devotees thanks to their secret language'.

     I bring this up since Your Humble Scribe is typing this out on Wednesday, the day before the Tribble-Topped-Beer-Barrel-In-A-Suit will be heading into court on Thursday to be arrested.  This will be interesting for two reasons: one, Citizen Trump will get to be treated like a common criminal, with mugshots and fingerprints being taken.  It might be a humbling experience for him, he's not had to suffer such ignominy before.  Art!

     Two, rather more pettily (and if the unimpeachably lefty-for-a-South-Canadian David Packman can discuss this with muted glee then so can I) we will find out what Dojo weighs and how tall he is, for real.  He always quotes "six feet three inches" and "two hundred and thirty pounds" because that means he's outside the criteria for morbidly obese.  We shall see*!

     ANYWAY of course - obviously! - this has nothing to do with what I really wanted to hold forth on, which was the disastrous Moon-shot by Ruffia's Luna-25.  You see - and this is where today's title comes from - there were a ton of typical Ruffian behaviours along the way that indicated it would fail, catastrophically.  Do you see what I di - O you do.  Art!

The brave 'Before'

The sad 'After'

     It's that little white dot.
     RWC, a poster over on Quora, who claims a background in USAF Intelligence (and whom is suspiciously well-informed about things he ought not to be), broke down the various indicators that Luna-25 was going to be an epic space-turkey of cosmic proportions.  Art!

With apologies to The Giant Claw

CORRUPTION: This endemic problem, what you might call "The Ruffian Disease", affects all industries across the whole of the Sinister Union 2.0.  This has caused chronic problems with quality control in the past and likely hamstrung The Giant Space Turkey - sorry! Luna-25.

EEEEVIL WESTERN SANCTIONS: These are wider than that title implies, since our valiant Dominion allies in Oz and Nez have both given the Puffy Polonium Potage Purveyor** the cold shoulder; more tellingly, so have the Sorks and the Japs, who are global leaders in microchip production.  The Ruffians either can't get the right stuff or pay up to 4,000% mark-up on what little they can get.  They have been Frankensteining old technology in order to make it work, with 'work' having a flexible definition.  Art!

Enormous plant for very small products

OLD AGE: It's 47 years since the last Sinister Moon-shot, so all the old Sinister-era scientists and technicians are long retired or dead, meaning that this attempt was made with a cast of callow newbies lacking experience.  Since the Ruffians are still working through old Sinister back-catalogue rocketry systems, their ancient technology keeps dying on them, or performing as and when it feels like it.  This time it was toying with them TOYING WITH THEM I TELL YOU!

THE NEDELIN CURSE: About three months ago, the Ruffian technicians were flogged into faster progress, since Tsar Putin and his lackspittle lickeys (a far worse insult than lickspittle lackeys) wanted to beat the Indian Chandrayaan 3 mission, also aiming for the lunar south pole.  This encourages short cuts, as happened with the catastrophic launch-pad explosion that killed nearly all the Sinister ground crew under Nedelin.  At least Luna-25 got off the ground without killing anyone, although the senior science staff may suddenly start falling out of windows.  Art!

TECHNOCHRONIC: Ruffia is about up to the level of Upper Volta in terms of technical production ability when it comes to hi-tec items, with the output of Lichtenstein.  Their cars feature steering wheels as an optional extra, hand-cranked windscreen wipers as were all the rage 100 years ago, a large gap in the fascia where things like air-conditioning, anti-lock brakes, airbags, indicators, fuel gauges and speedometers once sat.  RosKosmos technicians are able to estimate their speed by average time travelled between roadside street furniture, but the average Ruffian merely guesses.  This attitude and ability has been successfully transferred to their space program, with the results we have seen.

     The ones really laughing at this farrago are the Ukrainians, since $200 million would have bought either a naval frigate, five strategic nuclear bombers or 50 T-90 tanks.

Tentacle Love

First of all, WASH OUT YOUR FILTHY MINDS!   I know what disgusting perverts you are, expecting NSFW hentai when in fact we are talking about abstract art, because we are so refined and intellectual.  Art!

     Ol' Yay christened this forest of tentacles "A Bouquet Of Love I Saw In The Universe".

     I think you might need a new spectacle prescription, love.  Unless - you're not going on about tennis, are you?

"City In The Sky"

Hmmm, Arcology One is becoming more like Almost A Slum In The Sky.  Read on and see why it's original lifespan of twenty years is long past it.

     ‘Perhaps you can explain why you are here, Doctor Smith?’ asked Davros, the very model of polite concern.

     In one of his characteristic poses, the Doctor steepled both hands and rested his chin on them.

     ‘I didn’t expect to find any inhabitants left living in Arcology One, Doctor Haritanian - ’

     ‘Oh, please, call me “Davy”.  Nobody bothers with the formal address.  Sorry, please go on.’

     ‘My last conversation happened to be with Virginia Branson, who didn’t expect you to be Upstairs for more than twenty years.  Thirty at the very most.  For good measure I jumped forty years into the future – which is your present – and – well, here you still are.  All ten thousand of you, at least.’

     Davros leaned back in his bamboo chair, making it creak, and sighed, a very intense and profound sigh.  He stared into his coffee for a second, arranging his thoughts before making a reply.

     ‘Here we are indeed, Doctor Smith.  Not by choice, I assure you.  Our population is up to nearly twelve and a half thousand, well beyond what the Sphere was designed to cope with.  Our ability to recycle declines year-on-year.  Cannibalising the Eden sphere has helped us and the others to last longer than we ought to but collapse is inevitable within a decade, within five years probably, unless we return to Earth – and we cannot do that, seemingly.’

     You'll have to read on tomorrow to see what sinister forces are preventing an exodus from the Bernal Sphere.

Just To Rub It In A Bit Lot

Well well Kelvin Gosnell, who's gone and done a successful landing at the lunar south pole?  Hint: not the Ruffians.  Art!

     Doubtless there will be a few cocktails consumed tonight, and they might even invite a few cultural attachés from the Russian Embassy along as you tend to do when rubbing a combination of salt and lemon juice into an open wound.

     Tee hee!

     O and yes, it's a significant scientific achievement as well.

Finally -

Conrad is about 1/3 of the way through "Mansfield Park" and I think I deserve an award for continuing through whatever genre this novel is; provincial comedy of manners?  It is set in the early years of the nineteenth century, and despite the nation being at war with Napoleon, the biggest thrill so far is the scions of landed aristocracy and endowments plotting to put on an amateur theatrical.  O the giddy thrill-ride that is Jane Austen.

Because Ol' Janey is dull by comparison

*  No, none of this is Politics, because - get this - he's not a politician!  Except maybe in his own head.

**  A new insulting nickname - I made it up myself!  Can you tell?