We are all natural born racists. It is a genetic self protection mechanism to help our tribe survive the challenges life throws at us, principally their tribe across the divide trying to eradicate us.
Thankfully, through centuries of breaking down state, religious, racial and social barriers, many of us have a deeply held belief in egalitarianism, and actively promote racial equality in the global tribe. This is especially the case for those of us living in multi cultural urban populations.
In addition to my egalitarian beliefs, I am a libertarian. I believe people have the right to live the way they want and govern themselves without interference from the state. This belief is a big contributor to my political incorrectness. I despise political correctness in the same way I despise liars, cheats, bullies and thieves.
As of late political correctness is creeping into my professional and social circles and as a result, humour is suffering badly. One cannot make a joke these days for being branded racist or sexist. A joke is not a political statement and is not to be taken seriously.
Recently a UK bank manager had to resign for using humour in a discussion with his team on the year end results. He declared the results were like Muslims, "some of them were good, some of them were shite"!
I get vexing looks from people when I introduce my all star female analyst team as "dey is me bitches"!
We are in danger of a serious sense of humour failure.
American Democrat voters proved in last week's nomination contest that despite thousands of years of social advancement, and as the torchbearers for what they consider to be the paragon of egalitarianism, freedom and democracy, they are natural born racists.
Exit polls showed that the black candidate won the black vote, the white woman won the white women’s vote and the white man won white men's vote.
I see nothing funny in this at all.
Beaverboosh
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
All Good Things…
… must come to an end. They have universally conspired to come to an end in January.
I have been lying ill in bed for the past week, sweating… freezing… coughing… I fear it is consumption. Mrs. BB tells me it is over-consumption. My run of good health has come to an end, as have many other things.
My poor health is my own fault, other things unfortunately I have no control over.
Following the merry making of the holiday season, we had visitors in the mountains. Loads of skiing and more merriment prevailed. Major Pom and Atticus are two very good friends from London who could not resist inventing new yoga positions with Girl’s very fit yoga teacher.
The yoga was practiced mostly after midnight, when it more was difficult to stand or balance, lying splayed on the rug in front of the fireplace. This newly invented position called the “starfish” was most illuminating. The “kissing starfish”, involving one yoga participant doing the starfish on top on another was even more illuminating.
It is the first time I have seen young men so keen on yoga. The red wine and aquavit had begun to take its toll.
Girl and I moved on to a road trip in the Alps. A metre of powder at Le Grand Montets at Chamonix on the glacier d’argentiere and we were spent. I had the strength of Montgomery Burns. I could hardly raise the fork to my mouth to sample the Michelin starred delights in front of me. My claret was supped with lifeless regard. My situation was clearly deteriorating.
On to Verbier, blue skies, good conditions but no powder. Verbier is not as chi chi as St. Moritz or Megeve, but is a favourite with Brits, Norwegians, and now the Russians. You can be assured that when the Russians arrive anywhere, bling and bad taste go large. The streets are congested with even more Range Rovers driven by peroxide stick icicle queens. I avoid the $10,000 USD cocktail at the new chavtastic Coco’s. In the end, I settled for LemSip, a blanket, and a sofa by the warm fire. The end is nigh.
Whilst on my deathbed, offline, incapacitated and hallucinating, the global stock markets dumped, a deal I have painstakingly fostered for 11 months heads south, and…and…
Poor me!
The sun is shining today. We are expecting new visitors this weekend in the mountains. I have stopped coughing oysters. My deal looks recoverable. The stock markets are largely irrelevant and present great opportunities.
Thank god I was born contrarian!
I have been lying ill in bed for the past week, sweating… freezing… coughing… I fear it is consumption. Mrs. BB tells me it is over-consumption. My run of good health has come to an end, as have many other things.
My poor health is my own fault, other things unfortunately I have no control over.
Following the merry making of the holiday season, we had visitors in the mountains. Loads of skiing and more merriment prevailed. Major Pom and Atticus are two very good friends from London who could not resist inventing new yoga positions with Girl’s very fit yoga teacher.
The yoga was practiced mostly after midnight, when it more was difficult to stand or balance, lying splayed on the rug in front of the fireplace. This newly invented position called the “starfish” was most illuminating. The “kissing starfish”, involving one yoga participant doing the starfish on top on another was even more illuminating.
It is the first time I have seen young men so keen on yoga. The red wine and aquavit had begun to take its toll.
Girl and I moved on to a road trip in the Alps. A metre of powder at Le Grand Montets at Chamonix on the glacier d’argentiere and we were spent. I had the strength of Montgomery Burns. I could hardly raise the fork to my mouth to sample the Michelin starred delights in front of me. My claret was supped with lifeless regard. My situation was clearly deteriorating.
On to Verbier, blue skies, good conditions but no powder. Verbier is not as chi chi as St. Moritz or Megeve, but is a favourite with Brits, Norwegians, and now the Russians. You can be assured that when the Russians arrive anywhere, bling and bad taste go large. The streets are congested with even more Range Rovers driven by peroxide stick icicle queens. I avoid the $10,000 USD cocktail at the new chavtastic Coco’s. In the end, I settled for LemSip, a blanket, and a sofa by the warm fire. The end is nigh.
Whilst on my deathbed, offline, incapacitated and hallucinating, the global stock markets dumped, a deal I have painstakingly fostered for 11 months heads south, and…and…
Poor me!
The sun is shining today. We are expecting new visitors this weekend in the mountains. I have stopped coughing oysters. My deal looks recoverable. The stock markets are largely irrelevant and present great opportunities.
Thank god I was born contrarian!
I really must try to make it into the office, people are beginning to wonder.
Beaverboosh
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Hair And Now
That most informative UK rag, the Daily Mail, has run a story keeping us abreast of important issues of state. PC Plod, having conducted an extensive 3 year investigation, is prepared to testify at the Inquest that ‘Diana preferred men with hair on their backs’.
This follows an article in the same compendium in the run up to Xmas availing us of the news that Nigella, the domestic goddess, vowed a similar obsession with a greater specification for hair quantity. It would appear that nothing short of a Neanderthal grooves her truffles. No offence intended Charles, you are a very lucky man… and clearly have better taste in women than art.
There is a god… thank you girls! (Diana of course posthumously).
When Girl met BB, she was not sure whether I was a boy, man, monkey or puppy dog. As time went by, no greater clarity of identity emerged, so in the end she accepted all of them.
As most men get older they lose hair. The rate of growth of mine increases logarithmically by the month.
Anna Wintour is an inspiration to me, she gets her hair done every morning. I have recently posted an ad for a live in barber though I am nervous as I hear that butcher Sweeney Todd is back in town.
I could never commit a heinous crime, I am a walking DNA crime scene. I’d be busted quicker than a vicar’s grope of an altar boy’s privates at morning prayers.
Now I do not want to give my many millions of admiring weekly female blog readers an inaccurate mental image of BB, though if you have one at all, you likely coughing hair balls at this stage. Beaverboosh is ripped like the statue of David, you just cannot see the 6 pack for the down.
Lately, a little tuft has developed on the back of my shoulders… I have been thinking of getting it dreadlocked and hanging it outside of my shirt but it is not long enough yet. I am looking into extensions.
Thankfully, I have concluded the new tuft is but a girly patch after careful field observations in the gym showers last week. I have no hair on my ass, and certainly none growing on the palms of my hands or feet like a number of hobbits I saw gaggling in the sauna. I don’t need a strimmer for my ears or nose and have not yet developed antennae eyebrows.
Phew!
In any case, I am growing accustomed to it as it is hair to stay.
Beaverboosh
This follows an article in the same compendium in the run up to Xmas availing us of the news that Nigella, the domestic goddess, vowed a similar obsession with a greater specification for hair quantity. It would appear that nothing short of a Neanderthal grooves her truffles. No offence intended Charles, you are a very lucky man… and clearly have better taste in women than art.
There is a god… thank you girls! (Diana of course posthumously).
When Girl met BB, she was not sure whether I was a boy, man, monkey or puppy dog. As time went by, no greater clarity of identity emerged, so in the end she accepted all of them.
As most men get older they lose hair. The rate of growth of mine increases logarithmically by the month.
Anna Wintour is an inspiration to me, she gets her hair done every morning. I have recently posted an ad for a live in barber though I am nervous as I hear that butcher Sweeney Todd is back in town.
I could never commit a heinous crime, I am a walking DNA crime scene. I’d be busted quicker than a vicar’s grope of an altar boy’s privates at morning prayers.
Now I do not want to give my many millions of admiring weekly female blog readers an inaccurate mental image of BB, though if you have one at all, you likely coughing hair balls at this stage. Beaverboosh is ripped like the statue of David, you just cannot see the 6 pack for the down.
Lately, a little tuft has developed on the back of my shoulders… I have been thinking of getting it dreadlocked and hanging it outside of my shirt but it is not long enough yet. I am looking into extensions.
Thankfully, I have concluded the new tuft is but a girly patch after careful field observations in the gym showers last week. I have no hair on my ass, and certainly none growing on the palms of my hands or feet like a number of hobbits I saw gaggling in the sauna. I don’t need a strimmer for my ears or nose and have not yet developed antennae eyebrows.
Phew!
In any case, I am growing accustomed to it as it is hair to stay.
Beaverboosh
Friday, January 4, 2008
Powder Alert In Narnia
For all of you dedicated powder bunnies out there that have been demanding pictures of Narnia (that's you Ian), I will break my sacred blogging covenant of swearing allegiance to the written word to show you my secret.
For this promiscuous sin, I must submit to a blindfolded torment at the skilled hands of Nurse Myra in the cellar of Gimcrack Hospital.
For those of you uninterested, or no longer interested in the white stuff (Zhu), please link away now...
For this promiscuous sin, I must submit to a blindfolded torment at the skilled hands of Nurse Myra in the cellar of Gimcrack Hospital.
For those of you uninterested, or no longer interested in the white stuff (Zhu), please link away now...
P.S. This one is for you Johnny!
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Brewery Takes The Piss
Another most excellent yuletide in Norway has now passed and the local brewery has connected an extraction unit to my penis to (re-)bottle a special 2008 New Year's brew. To be honest, I've only taken to drinking my own urine in emergencies, but this year's vintage shows great promise.
The yuletide season here in Norway is magical and starts on the 24th of December. We dress in traditional National Dress (Bunad), and after our feast, hold hands and sing and dance around the xmas tree. It is like living in Whoville but without the Grinch.
Mrs. Beaverboosh and I have not started a family yet, so it is principally an adult affair, sans any little shits. Don't get me wrong, I love children, though I couldn't eat a whole one.
New Year's Eve is especially exciting as thousands of totally pissed members of the public ignite industrial military grade fireworks at the stroke of 12. These weapons are unavailable in any other country I have visited but to professionals. Here you buy them in the corner shop.
We are in the mountains, on a ski hill, so positioning before midnight is always tricky. It's like being in a firefight in Iraq... with snow, champagne and lots of hugging and kissing, ... and some falling over... and the occasional 3rd degree flesh wound or loss of sight!
It's all very merry, really!
Only 4 more days to the 5th and our 12 days of xmas will be over for another year. I am hoping the brewery will dispatch their man promptly to disconnect the apparatus.
The yuletide season here in Norway is magical and starts on the 24th of December. We dress in traditional National Dress (Bunad), and after our feast, hold hands and sing and dance around the xmas tree. It is like living in Whoville but without the Grinch.
Mrs. Beaverboosh and I have not started a family yet, so it is principally an adult affair, sans any little shits. Don't get me wrong, I love children, though I couldn't eat a whole one.
New Year's Eve is especially exciting as thousands of totally pissed members of the public ignite industrial military grade fireworks at the stroke of 12. These weapons are unavailable in any other country I have visited but to professionals. Here you buy them in the corner shop.
We are in the mountains, on a ski hill, so positioning before midnight is always tricky. It's like being in a firefight in Iraq... with snow, champagne and lots of hugging and kissing, ... and some falling over... and the occasional 3rd degree flesh wound or loss of sight!
It's all very merry, really!
Only 4 more days to the 5th and our 12 days of xmas will be over for another year. I am hoping the brewery will dispatch their man promptly to disconnect the apparatus.
Here is hoping that 2008 is your best year ever!
Beaverboosh
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