When I watch any Matrix movie, I like to pretend Keannu is being Ted instead of Neo 

and mentally replace all his lines with 

"Woah", "Excellent" and "Bogus"

A Cautionary Tale

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

We are on Playschool
Open wide, and like Big Ted
I will come inside

Screw It

I walk past Public bar to see what's cracken'
Bump into a guy I once was pashin'
I ignore him cause that's just what you do
He ignores me cause he thinks so too

Later that evening and drunk off his skull
He comes by me says "Hey, you doin' well?"
I say "Sure, hey how about you?"
He goes "Yeah, fuck, where's the loo?"

Much later still he touches my bum
Says "Come on darlin', you know you want some"
"Dude", I say, "I'm not that sad"
He snorts and says "I know you want it bad"

I say "Shoo"
He says "Pooh"
Now we're both a bit lonely with nothin' to screw.

Mirror, Mirror

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

Guest post #1: Potter on the Run by Zac Stanley

Potter On The Run

By Zac Stanley

Published: December 10, 2010

LONDON- Three days after the tragic slaying of local mental patient, Voldus Mort, at the hands of his recently escaped cell mate, Harry Potter, the public have raised their wands in protest to the Ministry’s apparent inability to apprehend the most dangerous fugitive the wizarding community has seen since Sirius Black.

Following the discovery of Mort’s body on the grounds of the abandoned Hogwarts castle, the authorities were quick to obtain warrants for the capture and arraignment of the deranged Potter. The actual capture of the fugitive, however,  has proved too great a task for the Ministry’s Auror Unit. Kingsley Shacklebolt, new head of the Auror Unit after the untimely demise of Alastor Moody- also at Potter’s hands- had this to say on the subject of the ongoing manhunt:

“Potter is a deluded psychopath. These people are always the hardest to track. They do not follow the same patterns as rationally thinking escapees and thus present a new challenge. Do not doubt that we will bring this killer to justice, however. It is only a matter of time. The Auror Unit and the Ministry itself urges the wizarding community to exercise extreme caution until such a time that the Potter menace is neutralized.”

Potter was last institutionalized after a string of murders- including those of his parents- were linked to him by the late Alastor Moody. His analyst and those orderlies who came into contact with him during his stay at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries all agreed that Potter’s ailment was mental rather than magical. Due to the violent and magical nature of his illness, however, his detainment in the highly guarded and little known Dangerous Patient Ward was deemed extremely necessary by the Minister of Magic himself.

Gordon Mufflot, an orderly at St. Mungo’s had this to say about Potter’s illness:

“It ain’t right, sometimes, locking people up because they ain’t right in the head. No windows, no doors except when one of us orderlies or a doctor makes one and no company but another drooling crazy in the bed oposite. In Potter’s case, though, I’d’ve thrown him in the dungeon and forgotten about him if it was up to me. Always mumbling to people that weren’t there, he was. Hermione and Ron- they were the main ones, always chatting away, they were. That weren’t all though, no sir. He had a whole world plotted out in that screwy head of his- Voldemorts and Death Eaters and a school for little witches and wizards. Imagine that- learnin’ magic in a school.  Anyway, I knew he was different the whole while he was in there- always cut my visits to that room short as I could.”

After escaping with Mort, a feat which to this day baffles both the doctors of St. Mungo’s and the  Ministry’s Aurors, Potter allegedly transported his cell mate and himself to the abandoned grounds of Hogwarts castle, the site of his imagined “school for young witches and wizards”. Aurors have reverse engineered the spells which Potter used on Mort before his demise, and have concluded that Mort was made very uncomfortable with a string of stinging and itching curses before his eventual demise at the hands of the Killing Curse.

A memorial service for Voldus Mort will be held by his family this Thursday and they have invited any empathetic witches or wizards from the London area to attend. The late Mort’s wife had this to say on the subject of her husband’s untimely death:

“Voldie was a good man at his core, he was only in that ward for a couple days a month to be restrained for his lycanthropic episodes. Every time I think of him locked in that room with that lunatic Potter, I just can’t... I can’t.” The recently widowed Ms. Mort took a short break from the interview and returned later to voice her grievances.

“It’s the fault of the Ministry. That Minister locked him away from the public but not from my husband. I don’t care that Potter was underage when he killed all those people. He should have been tried as an adult and sent to Azkaban!” Ms. Mort once again descended into tears at this point but wished to convey that a charity fund would be set up in the name of her husband to fund research into a cure for lycanthropy. She asked that those who were affected by the death of her husband would donate a Sickle or Knut in his honor.

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

The box is broken.
Hold the bag, suckle the last
Drop of crisp dry white

Son of a Baby Boomer

I was the son of a baby boomer

Hippie born and beatnik bred.

And my parents told me to be rebellious

So I did exactly what they said

Now these punks have all grown old

Their rebellion slowly running dry

So in my disdainful adolescence

I wear a suit and business tie

My parents said I could be anything

And that they would always be so proud

So I became The Man, and said

“Your hair’s too long, your music’s too loud”.

Life of Sam

Sam Wilkinson is the offspring of Ares and Aphrodite. Those who worshipped Sam often made bloody sacrifices in his name. Warriors who worshipped Sam, such as Heracles and Agamemnon, carried shields with depictions of Sam on them.

Driven mad by Hera, Sam slew his own children. To expiate the crime, Sam was required to carry out ten labors set by his archenemy, Eurystheus, who had become king in Sam’s place. Sam accomplished these tasks, but Eurystheus did not accept the cleansing of the Augean stables because Sam was going to accept pay for the labor. Neither did he accept the killing of the Lernaean Hydra as Sam’s cousin, Iolas, had helped him burn the stumps of the heads. Eurystheus set two more tasks (fetching the Golden Apples of Herperides and capturing Cerberus), which Heracles performed successfully, bringing the total number of tasks to twelve.

In June 1973, the Green Goblin held Sam Wilkinson captive on a tower of the George Washington Bridge. Georgia Quinn arrived to fight the Green Goblin, and when the Goblin threw Sam Wilkinson off the bridge, Georgia caught him by his leg with a string of web. She initially thought she had saved him, but she pulled him back onto the bridge, she realised he had already died.

Yoko Ono issued a statement the next day, saying “There is no funeral for Sam,” ending it with the words, “Sam loved and prayed for the human race. Please pray the same for him.”

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

The Bank Robbery

Wham!

The door flew open upon impact with a large, black boot. As it swung off its hinges three men stepped through, armed and dangerous. Black balaclavas covered their faces, guns staring menacingly at the onlookers as all three of them stood with their legs apart and their faces cold and unflinching in a well-rehearsed attempt to portray the very essence of bad-assery. Their slight V formation had a rather boy-band vibe, but that was dispelled by the shotguns, pistols, and large, empty sacks. One of them even had a pair of aviator sunglasses on over his balaclava, as he aimed one-handed and blew a surveillance camera off the ceiling with the stone cold grace and finesse of one who has watched too many gangster movies. Pure bad-ass.

A shotgun blast into the air grabbed the attention of all in the bank, and was followed by an applause of shrieks and panicked ducking. Moving across the floor like sharks through a swimming pool they approached the counter, shooting looks of solid badass into any bystanders who dared pull their heads from between their legs. The middle one presented a large bag to the bank teller, a Clint Eastwood revolver adding incentive for the teller to fill it.

 “And don’t try any funny business. If the cops show up the first thing I’ma do is blow yer fuckin’ braids out.” The bank robber demonstrated his fluency in bank robber dialects. His two cronies were watching his back, doing a first-rate job of acting threatening.

The bank teller was a skinny, middle-aged man with thick glasses appropriate for a dishevelled, nervous, scrawny geek. He trembled like a second-hand washing machine when talking to telemarketers from Delhi, let alone bank robbers oozing bad-ass and bullets. His scruffy-yet-neat shirt was stuffed into the front of his plaid grey pants, which were held up b a pair of dark suspenders and looked as though they might fill with excrement at any moment. The bank teller’s hands shot upwards in the universal position of “please don’t hurt me, I’m too pathetic to die” of their own accord, as he was too busy repressing a girlish scream to have any conscious control of his own body movements.

“Take it!” He shrieked on the edge of tears, “Take it all! Just don’t hurt me!”

The bank robbers laughed a deep, masculine laugh as they leapt over the counter to make sure no ‘funny business’ could be tried. One of them shot the change weighing machine on the way over, and gave a wicked snigger afterwards.

“This all there is?” the talking bank robber inquired, his cowboy revolver demanding an answer.

“Well…” the bank teller shook and struggled for words. Never to be described as having nerves of steel, his nervous system was more likely constructed out of talcum powder.

“Tell us, faggot!” Sunglasses Bank Robber desperately wanted to show off that he could talk too. That he grabbed the bank teller with both hands was completely unnecessary; there were already enough guns being pointed around to coerce the bank teller into revealing whatever information the bank robbers wanted.

“Bah- tha- I- there’s a s-s-safe ‘round the b-back.” The bank teller could scarcely speak through his terror, “I have the k-k-key right h-here.”

In return for his compliance the bank teller found the barrel of Clint Eastwood’s favourite pushed into his neck so hard it was leaving a little red mark.

“Take us to it!”

Like a mutinous pirate walking the plank, the bank teller was pushed down the corridor with a shotgun in his back, and there almost could have been small sharks circling the puddles of sweat he was leaving behind. He trembled along the corridor, and each time the bank robbers felt so compelled as to let a shot off into the ceiling he shook like an epileptic raver and let out a high-pitched yelp. Eventually he came to a big, important-looking door, made of reinforced steel with lots of bolts and rivets and bars stuck to it for no other reason than to make it look more intimidating. It seemed driven to out bad-ass the bank rovers lumbering towards it.

“Open it!”

The bank teller dragged his quivering body towards the lock, inserted his key and turned it. The cold steel swung open, and the ominous darkness from within the vault seemed to pour into the corridor. It held open its arms, inviting the bank robbers in with the promise of wealth and glory, and they couldn't resist its hedonistic siren song. They ran towards the open door, bags open and guns at their sides. As they dove thirstily into the blackness the bank teller closed the door behind them and locked it, making sure that it made a big, deep, metallic sound which served no purpose other than to let the bank robbers know that they had been out bad-assed. For as soon as the lights inside the vault turned on, they saw not gold or money waiting for them, but the skeletons of their predecessors. All of the previous bank robbers who had been led into the vault by a devious and deceptive bank teller sat there still, rotted to the bone, still clutching their guns and their bags of money.

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

You have just been the

unfortunate victim of

a haiku slamming

Photographing Children - The Original Cover Model

Time Flies

Be Friendly

Drying my hands on the front of my shirt, I make my way to my front door, where a repeated knocking with intermittent spouts of doorbell-ringing imply a great deal of impatience on the part of my visitor, which tells me they must have been there for some time. I steady myself by grabbing a hall table, mould myself into a posture somewhat resembling that of a dignified human being and swallow hard.

The gilded door handle is cold in my sweaty hand. I turn it.

“Hello. Can I help you?” I make the appropriate noises for the situation of seeing a uniformed stranger at one’s front door. My smile seems to be working; the man before me certainly looks like he believes it.

“Yes, you can.” Confidence. I almost sighed with relief. Whenever you hear confidence in a policeman’s voice, you know you are more or less safe. It’s when they get nervous that you have to worry. “My name is Detective Robert Grant, do you mind if I come inside?”

Inside? Damn it, I hadn’t planned for this contingency. I can’t say no, that won’t look good. Must be polite. Must always be polite. I’ll have to let him, offer him a seat. I might even have to get him a drink.

Keep smiling, for God’s sake, or he’ll see straight through you.

I let the man in and close the door after him. I lead him into the kitchen, where the while tile flooring gleams like a hellish parody of a cleaning product commercial. The walls have stopped moving, which is fortunate, but there’s a window open and a ghastly breeze of fresh air is drifting in. I pull up a wooden chair and the detective sits. I am required by social custom to ask if my guest would like a drink, and he politely accepts my hospitality, inquiring as to what my range of beverages includes. I know that to respond to his query I must examine the contents of my refrigerator.

My heart rate is well above average. Each pump shakes my chest and thunders in my ears, filling my body with blood. Blood races from my heart to my lungs, where it acquires oxygen necessary to fuel my bodily functions. It shoots around my body, delivering its vital packages. Blood runs through my arms, down my legs, around my head, around and about every organ inside my corporeal self.

That’s a lot of blood.

I realize I have paused, though I don’t think the detective noticed. I grasp the door of the refrigerator and swing it open.

“I have orange juice, and some cola. There’s plenty of water in the tap, or I could make up some tea or coffee. Or if you’d prefer I could slit your throat with that knife over there, and you can have your fill of whatever soulless black liquid gushes forth from your inhuman carcass you cold-hearted, moronic son of a bitch.”

“A cup of tea would be nice. Black. Two sugars. Thanks.”

He’s still calm. Still confident. Which means I’m still safe.

The sun shines through the open window and the sky is so blue it’s making me sick.

“Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” A lot of people play up the innocence of animals in a lot of ways, and one of those ways is saying that only humans lie. That’s not true. Chameleons lie compulsively, as do cuttlefish and octopi, changing colour to suit their location. Opossums lie about being dead, false coral snakes lie about being coral snakes. The only difference is we humans are better at it. Through generations of evolution we have mastered the art of deception to the point where we do it out of curtsey. Sometimes we even lie out of pure habit.

“Yes, it is, but I’m not really here to talk about the weather, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. What are you here to talk about?”

I take the kettle over to the sink to fill it. As I turn on the tap I catch my reflection in the highly-polished metal basin. It takes me while to recognize it. My smile is still there. I need to make sure I keep it casual. I can’t look like I’m enjoying this.

I really need to step outside and take a few deep breaths to calm myself, but I can’t arouse suspicion. I could pretend to go to the toilet, but then what would he think? What would he do while I was gone? What would he do while I couldn’t see him?

I think he’s talking to me but I’m not listening. I’m filling a kettle up with water. I’m putting that kettle into its electric holster, flipping a switch on the side. I see a red light glow and I already know that the process has begun.

“Mr. Dolphy?” wrenched back into conversation I realized that I had been expected to reply.

“Oh, sorry detective, I was…” damn it! Come on, Eric, you can do this! “…I was somewhere else.”

“If this is a bad time I can-”

Must not show weakness!

“No! No, no, no, no. This is fine. I’m fine. The time is fine, and I’ve already put the kettle on. Now, what was it you wanted to say?” I pulled myself together, my face, voice, posture and mind snapping back into place, leaving no traces of the person behind them.

“I was asking you if you knew John Goldman.” A question. Usually not a good sign but at least he’s not panicking. My nerves are buzzing like a powerline and I need a moment alone to calm myself down and pour me back into myself. I pull two coffee mugs out of a draw because I don’t have real tea cups and there is very little difference anyway. He patiently awaits a response. My chest tightens and the air gets very thick around me, clinging to my skin and squeezing.

“Oh, yes. I knew him from work.” Polite. No, not polite. Friendly. Yes, be friendly. For the love of God be friendly!

The kettle beside me is beginning to bubble. I can hear it, and I think he can too. The air is getting thicker, so I have to breathe deeper, and my heart needs to beat faster to get the oxygen around in a proper fashion. God damn it, how is he not feeling this? Can he taste that air?

“Did you know him well?” The casual cheer and mild curiosity in his voice is toxic to my senses. He’s being friendly. Why can’t I do that? Am I doing that?

Two sugars. He wants two sugars. I reach for the virginal white jar of sugar, filled with pristine granules of sweetness.

I pause before I answer his question, as if to contemplate the answer.

“Not really. He mostly kept to himself.” Incredible. I pause to absolute perfection. You really should have seen it. I left it just long enough to be truly believable, but not long enough to make it look like I was formulating some lie. The pause had a touch of fondness to it, as though I was recalling the personality of this man I liked, though never really spoke to. I titled my head in just the right way and pulled all of the right muscles in my face to replicate just the right nuances of emotion. The performance of a lifetime.

But already I feel it slipping. Could I do such a pause again? Not in my current state. When I’m like this I get one, maybe two good pauses tops. With one that good, I severely doubt my pause reserves have anything left.

“Do you remember when you saw him last?”

He bought the pause. He not only bought it, he took it to a fancy restaurant, had dinner with it, tried to get to know it and began liking it more and more. If he could he would take that pause home with him.

The kettle next to me keeps bubbling.

“It would have been a couple of days ago. Thursday, I think.” I think. Brilliant! “At work, I was leaving. He was the only person left in the building. He said he wanted to finish something off.”

My face is itchy but I can’t scratch it. That’s what people do when they lie, isn’t it? Scratch their face. I can’t do that. Not after I came this far.

The air is getting heavier. It’s getting harder to hold myself upright, but I persevere. Each breath is more of a strain, but as I look at the detective sitting in front of me he looks as calm and confident as ever, and breathes with a natural ease that would suggest that he has no idea how thick the air in here is. He isn’t sweating, he seems perfectly fine. At least he isn’t nervous. You know something bad is going to go down when a cop gets nervous.

“Do you remember what time that was?”

The kettle is bubbling more violently; I can tell it is almost boiled.

Do I remember what time that was? What time? I feign reminiscence, but it lacks the appeal of my previous pause. Hmm… about an hour before I killed him, so that would make it… six o’clock.

“Five-thirty, I think.”

Damn my face is itchy. And the air in here is worse than ever.

Smile, damn you, smile.

The walls are moving again.

“And what did you do then? Did you go straight home?”

No. I waited until no one was around except for me and him. I offered him a lift to his place. Then I came straight home, him with me.

I open a box of tea bags, and see that there is only one left. I try to meet his gaze but the damned sun light from the open window keeps getting in the way. My heart is pumping the blood through my legs so fast that they begin to wobble. I clutch the kitchen bench as subtly as I can.

“Yes. I went straight home. I took John Goldman with me. I knocked him out and cut him into little pieces because that son of a bitch wouldn’t give me the five minutes of peace and quite that I needed!” Dear God, did I say that? “He asked too many question, imposed on my hospitality too much, and would not give me a fucking break! So I took him to my place and I fucking killed him!”

No, I mustn’t have said that. The detective is still smiling, still friendly.

“And can anyone confirm that?” God, he reeks of friendliness. He believes me! The kettle beside me is starting to whistle, I can feel it boiling.

This God damned air, these God damned questions, the kettle boiling beside me the nauseatingly fresh air saturated with blue skies and sunshine bouncing off the squeaky clean tiles from which I scrubbed the blood stains, the blood rushing through my own veins the blood I can clearly see moving through the body of my interrogator who seems hell-bent on abusing my hospitality and not giving me a moment to myself and being fucking friendly about it! The kettle is well and truly boiled.

I pick it up by the handle and walk over to where the detective is sitting. My formal posture shifts to a deranged lank, my polite smile becomes a horrendous grin and I breath deep of the air around me, flushing out the oppressive force with which it strangled me before and feeling the blood run even fast through my body.

“Are you ok?” He asks. He had forgotten what his question was, startled by the transformation he has witnessed. He looks up at me, confused, bewildered. Nervous.

I pause. I tilt my head on a perfect angle: to the right and slightly forwards. My lips tighten in a smile that goes to no effort to mask the sadism they carry. My eyes darken with thought but light up with glee, and he can tell I am considering the question in great detail, and loving it. My apish hunch still towers over his sitting figure, my arms all boxy with the kettle gripped in front of my stomach, slightly to the right. It is a pause that says everything I need to say. It has a mischievous countenance coupled with a sinister glee; eyes revealing an unsuspected honesty and an overall feeling of dominance. A tone of freedom surrounds the pause; emotional freedom and the freedom to be myself. The smile reinforces the sense of glee with enough vigour as to confirm the suspected insanity. The duration suggests a deep and considered analysis of the question, without being so long as to detract from the question itself, or the answer that is to follow.

“Oh, yes.” I replied, my smile widening, “Yes, for the first time today, I feel wonderful.” A deep breath. “You see, I killed John Goldman. I hacked him to pieces in this very room. And now, I’m going to kill you.”

He heard me. I actually said it. I said it all. The look of terror on his face is incredible. The adrenaline pulses through him, and as the terror hits a peak a wave of endorphins flood his body and mind. He begins to sweat, he breathes deeply, his knuckles turn to snow as he clutches the chair beneath him. His eyes widen as the near-orgasmic fear overtakes him and I raise my kettle above his head.

A fast and powerful swing spills blood and boiling water everywhere. He stops breathing so deeply. He stops breathing at all. I let out a deep sigh of relief, basking in the pleasure of my act. My pulse gradually drops to a slow and healthy rate. I pant as though after strenuous exercise, and feel physically exerted. I grab an empty wooden chair and collapse into it, tilt my head back and sigh once more. The kettle drops to the ground and what remains of its contents pours onto the floor.

The walls stop moving.

Search: Georgia Quinn

Georgia Quinn (born 30 April 1987) is an Australian pop performer. She is best known for her starring role in the 2000 Sydney Summer Olympics Opening Ceremony and her single "Strawberry Kisses". Quinn is best known for her controversial appearance in a sex tape in 2003 (a night in Georgia)

At about 2:45 p.m. (EST), on 22 January 2008, Quinn was found unconscious in his bed at 421 Broome Street in the Soho neighbourhood of Manhattan. 

the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York released its conclusions, based on an initial autopsy of 23 January 2008, and a subsequent complete toxicological analysis. The report concludes, in part, "Ms. Quinn died as the result of acute intoxication by the combined effects of oxycodone, hydrocodone, diazepam, temazepam, alprazolam and doxylamine." It states definitively: "We have concluded that the manner of death is accident, resulting from the abuse of prescription medications.

Her epitaph read ‘too fast to live too young to die’

Pictures of Butts

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

Your mother has slept

With many men, despite her

Gross obesity

Darling it's better down where it's wetter.

Disney or porn?

You decide.

Too School For Cool

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not taking a moral stand here
I’m not trying to be a good role model, and
I’m not trying look after myself, or to stand against an unethical and self-destructive lifestyle,
I’m just not that into sex and drugs and rock and roll.

It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be
It’s just that I’m boring.
I want to be the kind of person to throw a TV out of a hotel window
But I don’t want to have to pay for it later
And I would probably feel like a jerk afterwards.

I don’t even know where to get drugs
And I hear they can be pretty expensive, anyway.
Marijuana smoke makes me cough
And I am left confused by the strange glass devices,
And I would look pretty stupid with dreadlocks.

I want to be addicted to something
Other than computer games and wanking.
I want to go out in the scunge and dinge.
I want to get my kicks like a rockstar, full of chemically induced hedonism
But I hear Left 4 Dead 2 is pretty good.

Don’t get me wrong.
I wanna be the kind of person
To pump my music loud and annoy my neighbors,
But my speakers distort pretty bad if I turn them up too much
And I can’t afford new ones.

I want to stick it to the Man.
I want to be a revolutionary,
But I can’t help but think that politicians are people too
And that they are probably doing their best
And that their parents are probably very proud of them.

I want to want to rock.
I want to be hardcore, on the edge,
Outrageous, extreme, underground and raw,
But I always liked the Beatles more than the Rolling Stones.
And I’m not really into much of this new stuff.

Also, I want to have a lot of sex.
I want to have lots of sex with lots of girls,
And I want them to love it. I want to be a stud,
But I’m usually not very comfortable with strangers
And with my friends it would be weird.

Don’t get me wrong.
I don’t want it to be special.
I want deprived, dirty, rock-star sex
With girls whose names I can’t even remember,
But I’m much too shy, not very smooth and I get very nervous.

I want it to be degrading,
Probably the kind where one of us cries
When it’s all over, and there is a sneaking
Suspicion that they might be tears of relief.
I want it to be nasty and meaningless.

I’m not afraid of diseases
Or overdoses, or emotional damage.
I want all of that.
I want to die tragically at a young age
Like Charlie Parker, or Jim Morrison

But I’d have to do it after my parents die first
I don’t want to upset them
And my Mum would be very disappointed with me.
Also, I hear liver failure is very painful
And I don’t cope well with pain.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not suicidal.
I wish I was, though.
I want to be a troubled youth, completely misunderstood,
Dark and brooding and melancholy.

But I’ve got nothing really to be miserable about.
I could try being miserable
About that fact that I want to be miserable,
But that would be stupid
And not very dark or troublesome at all.

I want the sex
And the drugs
And the rock and roll
And to be disrespectful, self-destructive, wild and revolutionary,
But the kettle's nearly boiled.

I’m making a cup of tea.

An unfortunate by-product of studying philosophy in high school

Hours and hours of Left 4 Dead, all for nothing.

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

Speaking in haiku
Is difficult, but it is
Also really cool

The amount of an alcoholic beverage needed to consume one’s bodyweight in alcohol

The amount of alcohol needed in order to consume your own body weight can be denoted as the variable W. The value of W can be calculated using the formula

Where p is the density of alcohol and m is your mass. The density of alcohol under room conditions is 789g/L (meaning that 1 litre of alcohol weighs 789g, or 0.789kg). The mass of an average adult male, according to my highly reliable source Yahoo! Answers, is 86.6kg. Using this data, the equation becomes

Meaning that for an average adult male to consume his own bodyweight in alcohol, he must drink 109.76L of pure alcohol. Of course, most people do not take their alcohol pure, but instead enjoy it as a solution of alcohol, water, and other substances. So, to calculate the number of servings of your favourite alcoholic beverage you would require in order to drink your own bodyweight in alcohol, the following equation can be used

Where n is the number of bottles require, v is the volume of each bottle, c is the concentration of alcohol and W has the value calculated previously.

Let us take the example of one of Australia’s most popular beverages, Carlton Draught. How much of this beer would be needed in order to drink your own bodyweight in alcohol? Well, if we assume you are an average adult male we can use the W value previously calculated (109.76L). Let us assume you are drink 375mL stubbies or cans. This gives us our volume (v). Finally, the concentration (c) of alcohol in Carlton Draught is 4.6% alcohol per volume. Using these values, we get the equation

Carlton Draught, like most beer, is often sold in six-packs, as well as slabs of 24 bottles. 732 bottles makes up 30 slabs and 2 six-packs.

The LD₅₀ of alcohol is 7g/kg, meaning that consuming 7 grams of alcohol per kilogram of body mass will result in death by toxicity 50% of the time. Therefore 606.2g of alcohol has a 50% of killing an average adult male of 86.6kg. Obviously, this means that consuming your own bodyweight in alcohol would be likely to kill you many times over (roughly 143 times). This only takes into account death caused by the toxicity of alcohol. Most alcohol-related deaths are caused by the psychological effects of alcohol, such as impaired judgement and decreased reaction time. These will come into effect long before the toxicity does, so any attempt at this feat would be extremely likely to result in death before any significant progress is made. As such, any person who would undertake such a suicidal task would certainly be a fucking legend advised not to.

And in other news...

In a documentary about the life and times of Morgan Freeman, he is going to be played by God.

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