Sunday, November 30, 2008

Slander sounds so much nicer than defamation

A wise man once said "Girls generally don't like it if you ask them to call you 'father' and beg them to dress like mother". He obviously didn't know Gertrud. Cause, you see, she's not like the others... She likes the same things I do... Wax paper... Boiled football leather... Dog breath... WE'RE NOT HITCHHIKING ANYMORE... WE'RE RIDING!!! [1]


















[1] Alright, so I stole that paragraph from Ren & Stimpy. You're going to do something about it, huh?

It writes another post or else it gets the hose again

By overwhelming popular demand, I decided to post again on this blog. In fact, the leading researcher in the buzzing field of computational linguistics and NLP herself, Danielle Ben-Gera, asked me to — no — practically begged me to write more.

Actually, I didn't talk to her myself. She usually handles trivial matters (such as human conversation and chit chat) by means of her army of robotic servants (all fully capable of speaking several human languages, including their most popular dialects) — a robotic army that, needless to say, she constructed and programmed all by herself, purely with the help of a hammer, a screwdriver and some basic HPSG.

But enough about her, back to a topic that is as close to my heart as possible: freebase heroin.

Enough about heroin, though. Back to more inspiring questions, such as why girls don't like it when you call them 'baby'. They usually don't, unless they do. And trust me, I know what I'm talking about — years of experience, loads of chicks. [citation needed]

It's also surprising that, in general, the girls that I cohabitate with object even more to my simple request to call me 'father', and to dress a bit more like mother did when she was young.

Mother, by the way, agrees that this is a perfectly reasonable thing to ask from a young lady. I didn't ask father. He doesn't talk anymore since the '85 incident.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

Maigret > Kriminalroman



Ernst, kaum lächelnd, glaubten sie allein auf der Tanzfläche zu sein, ja, allein auf der Welt, und als die Musik aufhörte, blieben sie noch einen Augenblick bewegungslos stehen, bis sie dann wieder zu ihrem Tisch gingen.



Georges Simenon: Der Keller des Majestic