Cry baby

Further to my previous entry about the Aussies being pussies it would appear that Matthew Hayden is joining in with the wussery (I just made that word up). He’s complaining about a poorly-aimed Simon Jones throw that hit him in the ribs.

Now, I’ve not played cricket for a while but it’s a pretty hazardous game. That ball is rather hard and you’re generally in danger of being hit by it if you’re a batsmen. In fact, anyone on that pitch can suffer a ball in the teeth if they’re unfortunate. I was umpiring once and almost got the ball deposited between my eyes by a decent hook shot.

Going by the Aussies behaviour since they got here it looks like they’re the ones doing all the whinging. I’m looking forward to the game on Saturday – should be a good, competitive match with a bit of an edge.


Thou shalt not display the commandments

The US Supreme Court has ruled that Courtrooms shouldn’t display the ten commandments as doing so would be “unconstitutional”. This has got something to do with the separation of religion from state, or something.

I’m neither American or religious, so I can’t say I’m too familiar with all this, but I read this story and wondered why they had to make any sort of ruling about this anyway. I’m assuming that they still make people swear an oath on the bible when they testify (or whatever other religious document you may want to swear on) so why make a complaint about this at all? It seems to have caused a bit of a stir between certain religious groups and secularists in the States, but why spend the money to bring this to court when it’s just so trivial?

In fact, I’m not entirely sure why this even made it to the front page of the BBC web site. Must be a slow news day.

They’re weird over there, and yet they think that we’re the eccentric ones.

Stress Management

An oldie, but goodie (received via email)….

When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don’t take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don’t know.

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I’d forgotten to make. I found the number and dialled it. A man answered, saying “Hello.”

I politely said, “This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn Carter?”

Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear “Get the right fuckin’ number!” and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robyn’s correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.

After hanging up with her, I decided to call the ‘wrong’ number again.

When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled “You’re an arsehole!” and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word ‘arsehole’ next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him up and yell, “You’re an arsehole!” It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic ‘arsehole’ calling would have to stop.

So, I called his number and said, “Hi, this is John Smith from BT. I’m calling to see if you’re familiar with our Caller ID Program?”

He yelled “NO!” and slammed down the phone.

I quickly called him back and said, “That’s because you’re an arsehole!”

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I’d been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a “For Sale” sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first arsehole (I had his number on speed dial), I thought that I’d better call the BMW arsehole, too. I said, “Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“Can you tell me where I can see it?” I asked.

“Yes, I live at 34 Mowbray Road, in Bolsover. It’s a yellow house, and the car’s parked right out in front.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“My name is Don Hansen,” he said.

“When’s a good time to catch you, Don?”

“I’m home every evening after five.”

“Listen, Don, can I tell you something?”


“Don, you’re an arsehole!” Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too.

Now, when I had a problem, I had two arseholes to call. Then I came up with an idea. I called Arsehole #1.


“You’re an arsehole!” (But I didn’t hang up.)

Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Stop calling me,” he screamed.

“Make me,” I said.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Don Hansen.”

“Yeah? Where do you live?”

“Arsehole, I live at 34 Mowbray Road, in Bolsover, a yellow house, with my black Beamer parked in front.”

He said, “I’m coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers.”

I said, “Yeah, like I’m really scared, arsehole,” and hung up.

Then I called Arsehole #2. “Hello?” he said.

“Hello, arsehole,” I said.

He yelled, “If I ever find out who you are…”

“You’ll what?” I said.

“I’ll kick your arse,” he exclaimed.

I answered, “Well, arsehole, here’s your chance. I’m coming over right now.”

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived
at 34 Mowbray Road, in Bolsover, and that my gay lover was on his way over to kill me. Then I called Channel 4 News about the gang war going down in Mowbray Road, Bolsover.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to Mowbray. I got there just in time to watch two arseholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead police helicopter and a news crew.

NOW I feel much better. Anger management really works.

Aussies are big girls

I read with much interest a story on the BBC website that shows that the Australian cricket team are a big bunch of pussies. Apparently, they’re ensconced in an expensive hotel somewhere that is rumoured to be haunted. Some of the team, especially that big girl Shane Watson, have been scared by the stories and also by some unexplained phenomenon during their stay.

I was especially amused by the photos in today’s Sun newspaper that showed Darren “Dazzler” Gough taunting young Mr Watson with his best ghost impression. Sadly, the tactics didn’t quite work out and England lost. The Aussies are still big girls’ blouses though.

It should be an interesting Ashes series coming up this summer.

They must think that we’re idiots

I’ve received an email today purporting to be from Barclays Bank. It’s warning me that I should take care because unscrupulous people are sending out emails claiming to be from your bank, when in fact they’re only after your banking details.

The email went like this:

Dear Sir/Madam,

Barclays Bank PLC. always looks forward for the high security of our clients. Some customers have been receiving an email claiming to be from Barclays advising them to follow a link to what appear to be a Barclays web site, where they are prompted to enter their personal Online Banking details. Barclays is in no way involved with this email and the web site does not belong to us.

Barclays is proud to announce about their new updated secure system. We updated our new SSL servers to give our customers a better, fast and secure online banking service.

Due to the recent update of the servers, you are requested to please update your account info at the following link.,00,102.html

J. S. Smith
Security Advisor
Barclays Bank PLC.

I don’t even have an account with Barclays.

What makes this such an ineffective Phishing attempt is that they’ve failed completely to provide a link to a fake site. They introduced a fake Barclays link that goes nowhere but then forgot to use the source code to direct it where they wanted.

Whoever has sent this has to be the shittest internet crook ever.

Poor quality Irish joke

Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Seamus, were stumbling home from the pub late one night and found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard. “Come have a look over here,” says Paddy, “It’s Michael O’Grady’s grave, God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe old age of 87.”

“That’s nothing,” says Sean, “here’s one named Patrick O’Tool. It says here that he was 95 when he died.”

Just then, Seamus yells out, “Good God, here’s a fella that got to be 145!”

“What was his name?” asks Paddy.

Seamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims, “Miles, from Dublin.”

In the absense of any other content to speak of, this joke has been shamelessly stolen from DDN


President Bush was visiting a primary school and he visited one of the classes. They were in the middle of a discussion related to words and their meanings.

The teacher asked the President if he would like to lead the discussion on the word “tragedy”. So the illustrious leader asked the class for an example of a “tragedy”. One little boy stood up and offered: “If my best friend, who lives on a farm, is playing in the field and a tractor runs over him and kills him, that would be a tragedy.” No,” said Bush, “that would be an accident.”

A little girl raised her hand: “If a school bus carrying 50 children drove over a cliff, killing everyone inside, that would be a tragedy.”

“I’m afraid not,” explained the president. “That’s what we would call a great loss.”

The room went silent. No other children volunteered. Bush searched the room. “Isn’t there someone here who can give me an example of a tragedy?”

Finally at the back of the room a small boy raised his hand… In a quiet voice he said: “If Air Force One carrying you and Mrs Bush was struck by a “friendly fire” missile and blown to smithereens, that would be a tragedy.”

“Fantastic!” exclaimed Bush. “That’s right. And can you tell me why that would be a tragedy?”

“Well,” says the boy, “It has to be a tragedy, because it certainly wouldn’t be a great loss and it probably wouldn’t be an accident either”.

As stolen from DDN – cheers Charlie!