To be the new Pope

I am what could be generouly called a lapsed Christian. But even if I become an atheist Budhist with Zoroastrian tendencies, I am and will forever be Agnostic. Even though I was never ordained by the Church of Agnostics, the experience left an indelible mark on my soul none the less. So, with Benedict throwing in the towel, the media getting their Catholic geek on and the election of the new Pope - it´s been an interesting couple of weeks. And my sister knows me very well.
"So what would you do if you were the Pope?" She asks.
"Probably try and figure out how to smuggle hookers into the Vatican." I say.
"Popes have done it before."
"I am sure the Borgias left tunnels somewhere." I laugh.
"No seriously." She goes on. "I am sure you care what happens to the new Pope, but what would you do?"
"Well I wouldn´t call myself Francis for one."
"Why not?"
"Because if any of you guys call me Francis..." Isay with a hysterical shrill in my voice. "I´ll kill you."
She stares at me blankly. "What the hell are you talking about?"
I sigh. I´m five years older than her so we dont share all the same cultural references. I explain the legendary dialogue from the movie Stripes.
"Oh man." She says when I finished. "That´s bad."
I emailed that video clip to a classmate of mine. He wrote back. ´I know. I was thinking the same thing. Psycho!!´

TO DO LIST UPON ELECTION AS SUPREME PONTIFF OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH:

1. When the Camerlengo asks, “Do accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?” Laugh maniacally and shout, “It’s on bitches, Hell Yeah!!!”

2. Pick a name. Pick a scary name. I shall be called Rodus Sixtus.

3. My papal motto will be, “Because I said so.”

4. Remind myself never to look at online porn again. That shit could be traced back real quick.

5. Quickly figure out who’d be the first to poison me. Drink bottled beer only.

6. Call my cigar store and have a couple of boxes sent to “Top Dude, Big Dog at Vatican” post haste.

7. Pull the Vatican out of the Euro Zone. I want my face on the money.

8. Call my banker in the morning to set up a retirement plan.

9. Order the entire Rosetta Stone Language program. I need to be able to say, “Kneel before Rod!” in every tongue.

10. Find some really, really hot nuns.

11. Have my butler totally vetted before hire.

12. Dust off the Spanish Inquisition manual and renovate the dungeon. I have some housecleaning to do.

13. Relaunch the Crusades – as a massive multiplayer online game and reap the profits.

14. Put John Paul II back in the ground – where he wanted to be laid to rest. (I don’t need to worry about my corpse becoming an object of veneration. Something tells me I won’t be buried in The Vatican.)

15. Put in a rule that says a Pope must be dead a hundred years before you can even think about promoting him to sainthood. Right now the whole thing’s a racket.

16. Create the Swiss Navy. Sell The Pieta to the Bellagio in Vegas and buy a fully armed aircraft carrier and rechristen it, The Wrath of God. Stalin once asked, “How many divisions does the Pope have?” Well Uncle Joe, now the Pope has nukes.

17. Move Castel Gandolfo to the Surrey brick by brick

18. Hire Bruce Willis to find those priests who have the stones to make The Fifth Element. With my luck Satan is a monster-sized alien who’ll show up on my first day off.

19. Make my five-year old nephew a cardinal. It’s been done before.

20. Rename the Jesuits “The Jedi” and rename their mother church “St. Obi-Wan Outside the Walls.”

21. Commission Pope Sixtus comic book series. I’ve already got a cape.

22. Make the Vatican energy independent by hooking up the mains to the Ark of the Covenant. I know it’s around here somewhere.

23. Ditch the Popemobile for a Lamborghini.

24. Bring back bingo night at St. John Lateran.

25. Extort cattle ranchers for big payoffs or I bring back of meatless Fridays all year.

26. Have all the other religions of the world pay me for “protection.”

27. No more of this “What time is midnight Mass?” bullshit. Midnight! End of discussion.

28. Say priests don’t have to marry – but they have to raise at least one child.

29. Make waiting tables part of seminary formation. You learn a lot about people serving food.

30. Proclaim no priest shall be ordained until he is thirty-three. By that time, if you’re crazy, we’ll know.

31. Warn Sinead O’Connor she’d better not rip up MY picture.

32. Buy red sneakers. Better yet, launch my own line – Air Sixtus.

33. Tell Puerto Rican mothers to stop naming their kids Jesus.

34. All of Rome’s homeless get to sleep in St. Peter’s every night. Make that mandatory for every bishop’s cathedral in the world.

35. Watch the first two Godfather films for guidance – because the Curia is the original Mafia.

36. Have nuns constantly praying to St. Anthony so I can always find my Keys to the Kingdom.

37. Add “Ecclesiastical Shogun” to my extensive list of titles. Get accompanying samurai sword from the Emperor of Japan. Wicked cool.

38. Make Latin hip again.

39. Bishops will no longer be allowed to reside in mansions. Of course, this does not apply to me. It’s good to be the Pontiff.

40. Bring back the Sedia Gestatoria. I am the Man!

41. Make L’Osservatore Romano a tabloid and add sudoku.

42. Turn the Bark of St. Peter into a macked out yacht.

43. Start selling stuff. Start selling lots of stuff.

44. Have my attorneys send Dwayne Johnson a cease and desist letter and tell him the use of the name “The Rock” has been copyrighted for two-thousand years. “Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo Ecclesiam meam.”

45. Bind less. Loose more. In all seriousness, we don’t get a new Pope every day. Even I teared up when I heard the words “Habemus Papam” Good luck Papa Bergoglio. The hopes of the world are with you.

Big Brother is watching, rant

I have had to change my beloved, oversized and pointless Government Identity Card for the so called Citizens Card. So I grudgingly head over to the most feared bureaucracy in Portugal – the Citizens Shop or Loja de Cidadao. When I get there, I discover the line just to get into the building is a 15 miles long. The book I brought almost manages to kill the three hours I spend waiting. Almost. “Number 242!” the clerk calls out. “Number 242!” “Here,” I say, almost running towards the counter. “ID and proof of residency, please,” the clerk says, not looking up from her terminal. I hand over my passport, social security card, driver’s license and a copy of my electric bill, gas bill, cable, water and a letter from my mother. Satisfied I am who I say I am, the clerk punches some numbers into her computer and says, “Okay, stand in the box to get your picture taken.” Freshly shaved with a new haircut and wearing a nice shirt, I take up position in the box and smile. “If you’re wearing glasses take them off,” She continues without looking away from her computer screen and not noticing that I don’t wear glasses. “And you can’t smile.” “Why not?” I ask in my really bad Portuguese. The clerk taps a sign next to the camera that reads “Facial Recognition System.” “Are you kidding me?” I say to myself. “If you smile it throws off the computer.” “Jesus. Talk about Big Brother.” “You want the Citizens Card or not?” I know the moment my picture is taken, it will join millions of faces in a system accessible to law enforcement personnel. The rationale behind such programs is to root out identity thieves and insurance fraudsters, hunt down Al Qaeda operatives and catch bank robbers who forget to wear a ski mask. I also know it will enable the government to track every move I make. A guy who used to work for the transport Authority told me that when I drive onto the 25th of April bridge, cameras are not only reading my license plate and comparing them to a list of wanted automobiles, but are also capturing an image of my face. “The cameras are so good,” he said, “They can count the change in your cup holder.” So, even if I leave my Via Verde Card at home, rip out Car Insurance disk and take the battery out of my mobile phone, the government’s electronic gauntlet will still detect me going into the city. Not that I want to do anything nefarious, mind you, but does the Portuguese Intelligence Agency need to know I crossed the Tagus river to grab a 10 euro burger menu at Mackie D´s? It’s a brave new world. Credit card companies can count the change in my pocket, Google Maps has a picture of my house, for-profit companies dissect my forays online, the post office scans my mail and, thanks to Mr. Snowden, whatever you think of him, I know all my phone calls and Internet searches are stored in some kind of vast database. Now the President of the Republic knows I have an affinity for MILFs in cheerleading outfits. Just great. But if I want to work, sleep, drive or spend some quality man time in the toilet, I have to acquiesce yet again to the power of The State. “Take the picture,” I tell the clerk, and the results are monstrous. I’m usually told I look younger than my forty-two years, but the grumpy guy on my new picture looks sixty – and has been absorbed into an PSP/GNR/PJ/PIDE biometric super snooper program to boot. Depressed, I go to my local cigar shop where I strike up a conversation with the local police officer. ”Rod,” he says, after I tell him about my run in with the burgeoning security state, “In five years, you will have no expectation of privacy anywhere but your home.” After hearing that, I wonder if noon is too early to start drinking. As I puff on my Maduro, the television news starts squawking about Anthony Weiner and his affinity for posting his penis online. For some reason, men love sharing pictures of their dicks with the world. I’ve never done so and I’m not sure what dark corner of male sexuality powers the compulsion, but if you look at sites like Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr and Snap Chat, you’ll realize the Web is veritable sausagefest. Then an idea free-associates with my paranoid mind. If facial recognition is going to be part of our daily lives, why don’t we have penis identification software? Cockidentifcation? Men already think their penises are special, but I’m sure the phallus of the human male had enough biometric identifiers that make it as unique as a fingerprint, iris or strand of DNA. So if we analyse the data I’m sure there’s enough variances in length, girth, lack thereof, tapers, angles, shapes and bends to assemble a searchable database of dicks. Obviously, we’re talking about cataloging erect penises here. Flaccidly and shrinkage would only confuse the system – like glasses and smiling flummoxes facial recognition now. So how do we get all this tumescence online? We already have an impressive collection of dick pics lurking on the world’s data servers. Putting names to those penises might be a start. Perhaps aggrieved females could put names to the unwanted cock shots they get and forward them to some future government agency. On second thought, I can see this being abused by pissed off drunken women nationwide. “Don’t call me back will you? I’m sending your prick to Guantanamo or Siberia!” I’m afraid we’d have to mandate some kind of cold and clinical nationwide dick inventory. Of course we’d have to use machines – no busty nurses with analog tools like tape measures, sorry. Too many dicks, too little time. Maybe when a young man signs up for Selective Service, he’ll have to go to full mast for his country and stick his unit in the Federal Wangometer and register his johnson. Perhaps future trips to the Loja de Cidadao might involve porno mags and dropping your shorts. Or we could finally put those detested full body scanners in airports to good use. I’ll leave the logistics to others. So what’s the benefit to this system? What’s the value of having every guy’s dong digitized and searchable? Glad you asked. 1. If you’ve ever used a dating website, you know that people send misrepresentative pictures all the time. If you send a picture of a penis that’s not your own to impress some woman on a sex hook up site – the computer will label your fraudulent weenie and boot you out of the system. That’ll prevent a lot of female dissatisfaction. 2. National security. Terrorists are invariably perverts. Remember all the porn they found in Osama’s bunker? Two minutes after these guys wrap up their You Tube rants about miniskirts and Western decadence, they’re spanking it to Girls Gone Wild. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine them posting pics of their dicks. Well, once the World Wide government Agencies penis sniffing algorithms spot a terrorist schlong getting Tweeted from an IP in The Hindu Kush, time to send in the Predator Drones. That’s what I call a hard target. Whacking tangos was never so much fun. Oh I could go on forever…… 3. Could be used as an alternative ID – a guy never leaves his penis in his other pants. Maybe it could even be used as a passport. Like being able to pee standing up, just another advantage to being a dude. Who knew Visa stamps could be so kinky? 4. Scientists could crunch the numbers and finally tell us if all those ethnic/racial stereotypes are really true. 5. Aid in prosecutions. Think how much faster the Bill Clinton thing would have gone. 6. Interpol and their special separate department Interpole (sorry), would have a 10 Most Wanted Dicks Poster. And you wonder why your girlfriend always volunteers to buy stamps? 7. It would make life easier for porn producers. “Jimmy Wad’s got the flu. Check the database for local talent!” Like all sensitive information, a national dick database will have to be protected. God forbid the government uses it for illegal purposes. Cops will need a warrant before doing any search and uh, seizures, but let’s face it; the court will find a way to pervert the Constitution. And I’m sure some whistleblower wannabe will get a job with the National Penis Data Initiative to “see what’s really going on,” steal the information, release it to the press and then seek asylum in Russia. Putin. What a dick. An hour later, my cigar has gone cold and I finish typing this post on my tablet. I’m exhausted from thinking about so many synonyms for wieners. “What are you writing?” the police officer asks. “Sir,” I say. “You don’t want to know.”.

NOTICE OF REVOCATION OF INDEPENDENCE

To the citizens of the United States of America, In the light of your failure to elect a competent President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective today. Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths and other territories. (Except Utah, which she does not fancy.) Your new prime minister (The Right Honourable David Cameron, MP for the 97.85% of you who have until now been unaware that there is a world outside your borders) will appoint a minister for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire will be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed. To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect: 1. You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium". Check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and 'neighbour', skipping the letter 'U' is nothing more than laziness on your part. Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters. You will end your love affair with the letter 'Z' (pronounced 'zed' not 'zee') and the suffix "ize" will be replaced by the suffix "ise". You will learn that the suffix 'burgh is pronounced 'burra' e.g. Edinburgh. You are welcome to respell Pittsburgh as 'Pittsberg' if you can't cope with correct pronunciation. Generally, you should raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. Look up "vocabulary". Using the same twenty seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. Look up "interspersed". There will be no more 'bleeps' in the Jerry Springer show. If you're not old enough to cope with bad language then you shouldn't have chat shows. When you learn to develop your vocabulary then you won't have to use bad language as often. 2. There is no such thing as "US English". We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of "-ize". 3. You should learn to distinguish the English and Australian accents. It really isn't that hard. English accents are not limited to cockney, upper-class twit or Mancunian (Daphne in Frasier). You will also have to learn how to understand regional accents - Scottish dramas such as "Taggart" will no longer be broadcast with subtitles. While we're talking about regions, you must learn that there is no such place as Devonshire in England. The name of the county is "Devon". If you persist in calling it Devonshire, all American States will become "shires" e.g. Texasshire, Floridashire, Louisianashire. 4. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as the good guys. Hollywood will be required to cast English actors to play English characters. British sit-coms such as "Men Behaving Badly" or "Red Dwarf" will not be re-cast and watered down for a wishy-washy American audience who can't cope with the humour of occasional political incorrectness. 5. You should relearn your original national anthem, "God Save The Queen", but only after fully carrying out task 1. We would not want you to get confused and give up half way through. 6. You should stop playing American "football". There is only one kind of football. What you refer to as American "football" is not a very good game. The 2.15% of you who are aware that there is a world outside your borders may have noticed that no one else plays "American" football. You will no longer be allowed to play it, and should instead play proper football. Initially, it would be best if you played with the girls. It is a difficult game. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which is similar to American "football", but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like nancies). We are hoping to get together at least a US Rugby sevens side by 2005. You should stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the 'World Series' for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.15% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. Instead of baseball, you will be allowed to play a girls' game called "rounders" which is baseball without fancy team strip, oversized gloves, collector cards or hotdogs. 7. You will no longer be allowed to own or carry guns. You will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous in public than a vegetable peeler. Because we don't believe you are sensible enough to handle potentially dangerous items, you will require a permit if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public. 8. July 4th is no longer a public holiday. November 2nd will be a new national holiday, but only in England. It will be called "Indecisive Day". 9. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and it is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean. All road intersections will be replaced with roundabouts. You will start driving on the left with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour. 10. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips. Fries aren't even French, they are Belgian though 97.85% of you (including the guy who discovered fries while in Europe) are not aware of a country called Belgium. Those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called "crisps". Real chips are thick cut and fried in animal fat. The traditional accompaniment to chips is beer which should be served warm and flat. Waitresses will be trained to be more aggressive with customers. 11. As a sign of penance 5 grams of sea salt per cup will be added to all tea made within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, this quantity to be doubled for tea made within the city of Boston itself. 12. The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all, it is lager. From November 1st only proper British Bitter will be referred to as "beer", and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as "Lager". The substances formerly known as "American Beer" will henceforth be referred to as "Near-Frozen Knat's Urine", with the exception of the product of the American Budweiser company whose product will be referred to as "Weak Near-Frozen Knat's Urine". This will allow true Budweiser (as manufactured for the last 1000 years in Pilsen, Czech Republic) to be sold without risk of confusion. 13. From November 10th the UK will harmonise petrol (or "Gasoline" as you will be permitted to keep calling it until April 1st 2005) prices with the former USA. The UK will harmonise its prices to those of the former USA and the Former USA will, in return, adopt UK petrol prices (roughly $6/US gallon - get used to it). 14. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent. Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun. 15. Please tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us crazy. Tax collectors from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all revenues due (backdated to 1776). 16. Last but not the least, and for heaven's sake.....it's Nuclear as in "clear" NOT Nucular. Thank you for your co-operation and have a great day.

I'd love to help you move rant

Sure!
I'd love to help you move out of your 2 bedroom apartment.
Let me guess?
Your on the 4th floor with no elevator?
And we'll be hauling cheap disposable Ikea furniture that falls apart when your try to move it?
And is it safe to assume that when I show up, instead of neatly packed, the apartment will look like a junk yard was sodomised by a category 5 tornado?
AWESOME!
When you said: "Just helping out with the big stuff?"
Did you mean: Helping organise, pack and move every possession you've ever owned, including your massive collection of 1980s era troll keychains, none of which are packed of course, but are instead scattered around the house like bits of multicoloured pubic hair?
FANTASTIC!!
Did you keep every book you've ever read?
GREAT!!!
I love moving 100lb boxes of Dean Koontz novels from place to place just so that you can proudly display them on your bookshelf and show house guests how intellectual you are.
I asked: "How many people are coming to help?"
To which you replied "A whole bunch!"
By a "whole bunch" am I assuming you mean myself plus that flakey friend of yours which would be about as much help as an asthmatic ant with shopping?
PERFECT!!!
Whats that you say? You'll buy me a beer??? Holy slavery Batman! A 1 euro value for 11 hours work - What a deal!!!
While we are at it, do you want to attach a halter and reins to my mouth so I can pull a plough for you?
No? Do any of your family members need burying? I ask because I'm also quite talented at moving large boulders into shapes of gigantic desert pyramids.
I'm cool at picking cotton too - just let me know.
You move apartment every single year always claiming your landlord is a dick!
After so many landlords I'm beginning to suspect that they arent that bad.
you simply suck at occupying a space which belongs to someone else!!!
Youre like a Spanish conquistador but instead of bringing smallpox you bring Scandinavian furniture, property damage, cat urine and irresponsibility!!
Saturday at 10 am???
Sure... What are friends for???

How I hate cold calls and fake surveys

Ok, there is nothing new about cold calls, despite the fact we all hate them, despite the fact we are rude to the callers they still keep calling. It's a fact of life and that's that. What upsets me is the lack of inventiveness to the callers these days
for example the
"Helloooooo, we are doing a survey"
yeeess
"don't worry we are not selling anything"
uhhuh
"I just wanted to ask 2 simple questions"
ahhhhh
"As an incentive you may win a FREE gift voucher"
Ooooooo - ok then, go ahead
"Do you own your own home?"
Errrrrrrr - yes (It's a vanity thing, you have to admit it, don't you?)
"Great! Now, second question, if you could replace your kitchen, bathroom for FREE which would you pick..........?

Recognise the trap? It won't be for free and it will mean follow ups very soon. Now what do you do?
My usual one to this question has been "none of them, we have just replaced the lot".
Needless to say they pack up at that point and you don't get your FREE voucher!!

So, what are the follow ups to this type of call? Answer the question with "I would probably choose a kitchen" and you will win the "voucher" with the benefit of a follow up call at a later date starting.............
"Helloooooo, you answered a survey a while ago saying you would like to replace your kitchen and we have estimators in your area so we would like the opportunity to give you a FREE estimate for a luxury designer kitchen?"
I don't need an estimate, they told me how much it would cost.
"Really? Oh, errrrr, so you have had an estimate?"
No, I don't need an estimate, they told me how much it would cost and you can come and fit the kitchen on Monday please.
"Errrr, I'm a bit confused here, can you confirm the cost they gave you?"
Yes, it was FREE. The question was "if you could replace your kitchen or bathroom for FREE which would you pick" So, I'll have the FREE kitchen please, is Monday ok with you?
Oh, and while you are on the phone can I order my FREE bathroom too? Make that Tuesday please, we don't want the workmen getting in each others way.
"I think you misunderstood Sir, it's not FREE but of course you don't have to pay the full price because you won the FREE gift voucher which knocks a huge 10% off the price!!!"
Ahhhhhhhh,, ok this may be a strange question but when you do the survey why don't you say "If you could replace your kitchen or bathroom for several thousand Euros, which would you pick"
"I don't think that would work from a marketing perspective, I have a feeling most people would just say "no" or hang up"
NO?!
REALLY?! .......................click

To the blonde MILF jogging in the park on Sunday

Dear Blonde MILF

I hope you realize that my perving was directed at you and only you, and absolutely no part of it was meant for your young daughter (niece? juvenile jogging companion?).
As implied, I enjoy the perks of jogging in the park, and one of those is a bit of ogling on the sly. It helps me forget that it's been too long since I was jogging regularly (of course), and I usually wear sunglasses to keep my baser proclivities to myself.
You are stacked and I mean stacked, Jeez! You couldn´t fit a baby´s finger in between that sports bra but hey, you are welcome to prove me wrong and show me some day!
I like blondes, NAY love blondes! They have always been my weakness and downfall and will constantly fall victim to them. There is no other basic instinct in me that reacts with such a force as when a blonde walks past. I mean help! I have betrayed girlfriends, missed dates, forgotten friends just because a blonde smiled as she walked past and I ended up spending the day, afternoon or night with them. (Obviously depending on the type of lady involved!!!)

But on Sunday my sunglasses were missing...you see where this is going, right???
Anyway, I must congratulate you on getting your young companion to to run completely concealed behind you, only to emerge at what was, for me, the worst possible time. Do you practice that? It must be the best ogle-stopper in the business. I swear, when she popped out from behind you, my libido panicked and imploded in about a nanosecond, and it took effort not to loose a cry of "Dirty perv!!!" Well played, MILF.

Anyway, I am sorry if the young lady was hit with creep-shrapnel. That really isn't my thing. I apologize if my perusing of your goods was offensive, too. But next time, lose the young one and go solo for a while... If not for the kids innocence then at least for my health. I have a serious medical dissorder in which I need to perv or my balls will explode!!!

See you around?


Location: Costa de Caparica, Portugal.

Paintball Pallet Wars

Report

Date: 16/10/2010

Area: Negrais undisputed war zone

Report:
On Saturday 16th October 2010 at around 9am, the green forces engaged in combat with the blacks team in a violent confrontation of paint for the supremacy of Negrais.


This day would mark the return of some old vets to the paintball field, specially myself who had not seen a war since entering Portugal. It has been 5 odd years of doing nothing but sitting in front of a computer and smoking way too many cigarettes. (Truth be told, just about the only excercise I´ve engaged with during that time frame would be getting up from the couch to go sit down for a meal and squirrel stalking (but thats another story!!!!!)

But enough about my slacker days, on with the show!!!!!!!!!!!!

An enormous, tremendous, overwhelming number of things took place this weekend and the only way that I can do the event and the happenings any justice is to break it all up into a multiplicity of individual reports (unless you’d all rather spend the next five days reading War and Peace 2, the longer version of the day after)

So forthwith, I will now provide you all with a summary:

The Paintball event was partnered mainly with work staff from Estefania.  The facility itself at Negrais has been in use for a few years now but this was the first time any of us had a chance to play on said field.

One major change was evident from the multiple fields I have played in the UK:  the playing fields were a lot smaller, which meant that the games would have to be played with little tactics and loads of guts Or more like run around like a lunatic, scream like your on a mixture of Repnol heart racer and Sudnil stay awake pills!! (basically about fifteen bottles of Vodka and Red Bull!!!)

We played out games and had a great time (I hope I’m not being overly modest by saying that it only took me three games to get my game back), but the majority of the fun and the overall experience was getting together with folks that I’ve not seen or played with/or against before.

I’ll get the lists of vets out of the way first. YES, thats myself, Emanuel and Dave who have been hauling paint out in the field before. (that means we have been through the wars before, in paintballing slang!). Judging by the dropped jaws and the information that all three of us were to stay in the same team seemed to tremble some knees but even though all three of us have had some paintball history under our belts but have not fired paint in a while should have consolled them. It was a pleasure to be able to be around people who knew something of the sport rather than
screaming American teanagers that just ran around like headless chickens.

Suffice it to say that after a long time out of the game the old habbits kicked back in and we were all communication with hand signals, even though most of the time it involved the middle finger!

Consider that to be a good thing.

Ok. Enough with the Rod, Emanuel & Dave Show.

Other notable get togethers were: Toni (FI), Hugo (UKI), Sean (UKI), Manuel (UKI), Manu (GK) & Wife and many other players that I will not mention due to the National Secrets Act of 1971.


Apologies to everyone else who I probably ought to be mentioning but have managed to forgot at this point. (Believe me, I know I will be reminded of so-and-so and I WILL be editing this piece to include anyone who ought to have been mentioned.)

Games that we managed to play during the five hours were:

Shoot the president (a game which ended with the Green Teams President being shot in the face within about 5 minutes)

Afghanistan Oil (this was a real leg killer, specially when your going up hill.)
Trust me this hurts!!
Favelas (basically a city slum, very much like Rio or Lisbon)
Speed Ball (Easiest way to explain this is run around trying to find your gun and waste some ammo)
Pallet Slope (Pallet collection anyone?)
Rock Valley (Rocks, rocks everywhere)

It was an absolute blast and I will be returning to the wars with regularity – (Wife willing!!)

Breathless, with lungs and chest ready to explode like an unborn alien we walked off the field at the end of the day still with the same smiles we had walked onto 5 hours earlier.


I still remember that first game at a real, honest-to-goodness paintball field as if I was observing myself from a distance. And I felt that way at the time too though I can’t explain why. I wasn’t excited, I was intrigued. I wasn’t expectant, I was curious. Until the whistle blew. And everything changed. Prior to the game the refs had explained the field for the newcomers and encouraged everyone to take a lot of ground quickly. Not knowing any better I did exactly what they suggested and ran until I realized paintballs were zinging all around me and I threw myself down behind a tree that didn’t come close to offering real cover. Fortunately there was also a depression in the ground on my side of the slim trunk and I pressed my face up into the exposed roots applying the ostrich principle (If I can’t see them they can’t shoot me) for all I was worth as paint continued to whiz by and smack the tree and ground around me. Suddenly paintball became immediate and real, visceral and intensely exciting. I was so excited infact that I heard someone laugh out loud and suddenly realised that it was me! I quickly realized that while I wasn’t a sitting (or laying)duck I wasn’t secure either and that was great, too. It meant I had to do something besides not get shot. (Although being at risk and continuing to survive was a big part of the thrill.) I called out to my teammates and discovered most of them were quite a distance behind me. That first time it didn’t bother me in the least. They were the ones missing out. Slowly the game began to unfold.
I tried to use my forward position to relay information. To spot the opposition’s positions. I worried about being flanked because my depression wouldn’t save me then. I tried to bring my gun to bear but I didn’t try too hard because I didn’t want the game–this first real experience of paintball–to end. I knew I didn’t have the skills to compete and it didn’t matter. All I wanted was to keep playing.
And fourteen years later I’m still hooked though my relationship to the game has evolved pretty dramatically over the years.

Crispy tweets.

It’s two in the morning, and there is a bird in my ventilation system. That isn’t a euphemism, either. Like “man, I had this bird in my ventilation system last night! It was crazy!”

I bet he'll be tasty.
There is an actual, live bird, trapped in my ventilation system. A fowl imprisoned in a silver cage.

I started hearing things a few days ago. Simple things, not enough to attract any actual attention. At first, I thought it was just the house settling at night, or perhaps even a squirrel on the roof, high out of his mind on acorns, chasing imaginary giant nuts!! But as the noise persisted, I knew it could only mean there was a creature inhabiting my vents. The thing is... It´s not just a normal vent. Its the one linked to my water gas heater!

I first thought it was quite possible that a mouse was running amok in my house, rampant with lust for the pizza I had left the night before and perhaps that mouse decided to take refuge in the vent in the kitchen. But I came to this horrible conclusion this morning, when I heard the unmistakable “tweet tweet tweet” that was accompanied by the slight flutter of a pair of wings, futilely attempting to get enough room to fly.

But instead, the bird sits in my vent, attempting to survive. What a prick. Doesn’t he know that I’m trying to sleep? He can at least have a little respect for those who aren’t facing an imminent death and shut the fuck up.

For now, I need to figure out how to get the bird out of the vent. It would be useful if I knew how the damn thing got in there to begin with. The only reasonable scenario that I can drum up at this early hour relies heavily on the notion of teleportation. Or the chimney.

But that would be ridiculous.

Fed up...

I'm fed up with life. Not only life but work. And driving. And shopping. And eating. And working. Somewhere, somehow, they're different now, none of 'am are the same, they all got chewed up and spit back out, and they don't taste like living anymore! Don't you see what it's like in this deranged Waring Blender of a world?! Every day is an agonizing ordeal, like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head while people whip your legs and butt... (hmmmmm) You never forget Uni...

YOU think I'm "sick"? Well the only disease I've got is "Modern Life," a schnutbusting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that's one long parade of let-downs, put-downs, trickle downs, shutouts, freezeouts, sell-outs, numnuts, nincompoops and nimrods, all making every day as much fun as waxing a flaming Cherokee Jeep with your tongue, where even if you do luck into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like, say, if some nymphomaniac telephone operators with the muscle control of Rumanian mat-slappers agree to a little Strip Air Hockey, it'll be over before it starts 'cuz some vowel-lacking, feta-reeking cab-jockey slams his Checker up your hatchback and the cab is owned by some pinata spanker from a Santeria cult in Xoacalpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete, and even with all this, with ALL THIS, I still drag my sorry butt off the Sealy every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day, knowing when it's time to flash the cosmic card key at those Pearly Gates, I won't be in the coffin anyway 'cuz some underhanded undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted Good 'N' Plenty to that same Santeria cult, so does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails while Life dirty-dances on their digits, and is it really any wonder that I seem DERANGED???!!"

But...heh that's probably nothing you haven't heard a hundred times before...

Some suggestions for the Youth of today on how to not be Useless

First of all, PULL UP YOUR FUCKING JEANS!!!
Look, I support your right to express yourselves, I did the whole Rebellious Youth thing when I was in school. But having your jeans hanging down with your underwear sticking out of the back is about the stupidest look you could go for. You look worse than a fucking retard, cause at least the retard was trying to put them on right. Besides, in Prison it means you're already "spoken for" and it's a signal to other cons not to hit on you, because you're someone else's bitch. So unless you take it up the ass from a 300-plus pound, life sentence or more, not-ever-eligible-for-parole murderer on a regular basis, or have to blow him & his buddies whenever he says, pull up your jeans you useless bastards.

Learn the value of respect. For instance, if you don't respect yourself, how in the hell can you expect anyone else to respect you? Years ago, before you could call 999 and have the Child Protection Agency arrest your parents, disrespect earned you an ass-kicking. If you fucked up, you paid the price, simple as that. Respect is better than money in a way, because the more you give to others the more you get in return. An unruly, disruptive, over-indulged little cshit is a useless individual, destined to be nothing more than a burden to society, unless your parents were smart enough to become wealthy. Then you won't be a burden to society but you'll still be a useless fuck head.

Learn the value of money. I don't know why your parents can't say "No" to you whenever you whine for the latest hundred-euro pair of jeans or an expensive gaming console, but just be glad you're not my kid. I started making my own money before I started school by washing windows in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter. There will always be someone willing to pay you to do things for them, if you get off your lazy ass and do it. I would probably pay some neighbourhood kid a 50 to cut my grass, but in an area full of teenagers, there aren't any who would do it. Believe me, it feels way better to pay for something out of your own pocket. That way you don't have to justify it to anyone. My dad caught me smoking when I was 14 and swore he would never give me money for cigs, and was true to his word. But I always had cigs, because I always had money. So knock off your pussy-assed whining and earn your own money, otherwise you're also a useless shit for brains.

Pimps and drug dealers are not role models, they're pussies. When you call something "Pimp" all it says to me is that it's something overtly tacky and ostentatious (look it up) and cheap. In other words, totally devoid of class and purpose. When you implement the previous suggestions, you will realize that you can't buy class. Just because a suit cost 1,500 doesn't mean it won't make you look like a fucking carnival barker (look that up too). If you drive a chimp around in a limo, it doesn't mean that chimp has class, because he'll still beat off and throw his shit at you. The same is true for people; just because some white trash fuckwit won the Lotto doesn't mean he's a better person, it just means he'll swap his rusted-out 88 piece of shit Ford Capri for a new Escort, and finally buy that second Elvis-on-velvet painting he could never afford before. A pimp makes money by bullying women into giving him money,and any able-bodied grown man who doesn't earn his own living is a useless shit.

I'm sure I'll be putting up similar posts in the future, because I'm far from done.