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Biker dog. 2/28/2007

Roy sent me this via e-mail this morning, and I cracked myself up laughing.

Dog : Doobie doobie doo doo doo la la la la la la

Dog : Hey! That human’s looking at me and taking my picture!

Dog : *SMILE* Hiya!

I don’t want to think what would happen to the doggie if the rider dropped though. Captions supplied by someone during a gchat conversation.

Flashing. 2/27/2007

I got on the bike and rode out to work first thing in the morning, as usual. I exited the parking lot of my condo, giving the security guards at the post a wave of my hand. I came out onto the main road, and turned left.

Now, the thing about the condo where I stay is that parking spaces are limited, as in each unit only gets one parking space. And considering that most units have 2 or three cars, the residents end up parking their cars on the main road, at an angle. Mornings will see an exodus of people coming out of their units, and walking out to their cars. Many will be carrying laptop bags or briefcases, or handbags. And usually they open the read door to stash the bag in the back seat, before geting in the driver’s seat and heading off.

Today was no exception. I came of of the unit at the peak of morning rush hour, and I could see cars on either side of me hainvg their doors opened, and hear engines being warmed up. As I rolled down the road, I glanced to my left, and almost lost control of Bikebike.

The car off to my left had its rear door open, and the owner of the car was bent over, probably arranging things in the back seat. She had one foot on the road, and the other bent at the knee, resting on the back seat. She was reaching far inside the car, doing god only knows what. Which isn’t so bad, in and of itself. What almost made me crash Bikebike was the fact the she was wearing a skirt.

An altogether too short skirt, which allowed her panties to show. And these weren’t sexy, lacy things either. These were definitely granny undies, flesh coloured, which she was possibly using to keep her tummy tucked in and hips in check, so that she could wear that altogether inappropriate dress, with its way too short skirt. I use the word inapproriate because, well, the view I was being afforded showed me her thighs.

Lots of thigh. Big. Huge. Like sides of beef. In that pasty pale skin from not seeing the sun. To make things worse, they were covered in cellulite, and there were varicose veins on her legs. She wasn’t wearing stockings, which I guess might have made it slightly more bearable, but this was way too much.

I averted my gaze quickly, and gunned the throttle to get away from the sight as quickly as possible. I shuddered in my jacket. If there was ever a reason for this country to impose Islamic law, and impose wearing the burqa compulsory for women, that was it.

A matter of degree.

I was channel surfing last night, in the throes of insomnia, when I caught a snippet of CSI:NY. I know a lot of people rave about this show, grooving on the technical jargon being thrown around, and the forensic scientists looking cool finding clues the first time they look, making accurate predictions and getting test results instantaneously.

The reality is a little different. Forensics science is more of an art than a skill, and requires a person with a very keen mind and an eye for detail. Along with the fact that forensics takes a bloody long time to get test results or details of analyses, and then a lot of time is taken to interpret the results. Bear in mind that a forensics pathologist may be required to give evidence under oath in court, and subject to cross examination by counsel, something I don’t see a lot of in CSI. And the evidence has to hold up in court, because justice being served, and served correctly, may hinge on the testimony of the forensics scientist.

And I use the word scientist in it’s most literal sense here. Someone working in forensics will have a science degree of some sort, usually in one of the hard biological sciences, or a forensics degree. Definitely someone with a lot of science education. So when watching this particular episode of CSI, I fell off the sofa laughing when I heard the following.

Scene : In a cold room containing sides of beef hanging from the ceiling. Frost is evident on the walls and floor, and breath is coming out in mist.

CSI actress : “The blood is still liquid. It can’t be. The temperature in here is freezing, at zero degrees Fahrenheit.”

In case you failed general science, 0 degrees Fahrenheit is -17.78 degrees Centigrade, which is way below freezing. Freezing point, where water turns from its liquid state to ice, is 32 degrees Fahrenheit, or 0 degrees Centigrade. Meat lockers are set at 4-6 degrees centigrade, because setting the freezer temperature below zero centigrade spoils the texture of the meat. I think what the actress meant to say was “Centigrade”, not “Fahrenheit”. And fans still groove on this show? I think it’s pseudo science of the worst sort, along with Dan Brown’s “Da Vinci Code”.

For a calculator where you can check this, go here.

Anyway, if you use Fahrenheit or Centigrade, you’re a bapuk.  Real men use Kelvin.

Challengers. 2/24/2007

To this day, after more than 20 years of riding, I will never, ever understand something about car drivers. And this is in spite of the fact that I sometimes drive a car myself, when I have to. It is a given that motorcycles, any motorcycle, are far superior to any car in terms of acceleration. Leave out supercars, because they exist in a world which has very little bearing on reality. I am talking about your average Joe, in his average box on wheels, wanting to pick a bitch fight with a standard motorcycle on the road.

I really don’t understand this. Is it a matter of ego? Or as she put it, small Asian penis syndrome? What makes someone driving think that his MPV can take on a motorcycle? You’d have to be an idiot to do so.

I was riding out last night, going to meet the guys for our customary Friday night meet. An MPV was on my right, I was in the middle lane. And he was really gunning the engine, trying to get in front of me for the slip road heading off to the left. He edged in. I throttled up, not even straining the engine, to show that I wasn’t giving him an inch, and all he had to do was to slow down a little, and slip in behind me, as it would be courteous to do.

He didn’t like this, for some strange reason. I looked behind me, and he was tailgating. I looked at the number plate. It was a brand spanking new vehicle. I sighed.  I proceeded along, and this idiot started weaving in and out of traffic trying to get in front of me.  I started laughing inside my helmet.  Mr Moron in his MPV was absolutely clueless about motorcycles and their ability to get through traffic, at any speed the rider so chose.  If you really must know, that is probably the single most important reason why I choose to ride a motorcycle instead of driving a car on my daily commute.  A bike lets me laugh at traffic and traffic jams.

Mr Moron in his MPV must have really been raging for some reason.  Maybe his wife didn’t give him a blowjob after dinner.  Or maybe she did.  I really didn’t care.  He managed to come alongside me on the left.  He was going to start edging me out again, to try and get in front of me.  I looked at him.  I put my left hand on my knee.  I gunned the throttle several times, egging him on.  I twisted the throttle, let the front wheel lift, and waved bye-bye.

Girl Friday. 2/23/2007

Masters of the Universe. 2/21/2007

I just came back from lunch in the towers.  After much deliberation, walking around, looking the queues waiting for a table at various restaurants, we decided to have lunch in the Thai restaurant at the top floor of the mall.  We walked in, and were shown to our table.

As I was sitting down, I noticed that there was someone already at the table.  A cockroach.  Not a small one either.  I paid it no mind, as the cockroach was kind enough to go under the table, to allow us to have our lunch.  We sat down and proceeded to order our lunches.  I asked for a pineapple fried rice, which came fairly quickly.  As the waiter put the plate down, I noticed that my fried rice came with an extra.  Another cockroach.  Smaller than the one that was at the table earlier, but definitely related.  I motioned the waiter over, and pointed out this cockroach.

The waiter quickly apologised, and took the dish away.  He came back and apologised again, and said the kitchen would be making a fresh order for me.  I nodded my head, knowing full well all the chef was going to do was to put the fried rice in another half pineapple, and probably spit in it for extra flavour before sending it back out to me.

My re-order came.  The waiter put it down on the table in front of me.  I thanked him, and picked up my cutlery, to start eating.  The fried rice, with prawns and pineapple, looked good.  It smelled nice.

And then as I dug in with my spoon, I saw it.

Another cockroach.

Grumpus. 2/20/2007

No smokes at all today.  Feeling more than a little grumpy and cranky.  Caffeine without the nicotine isn’t the same.  Trying to stay busy, and keep my hands occupied, but I can really feel the craving.

This had better be fucking worth it.

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