The world is coming to an end.
Terrorists are trying to blow us up and eradicate our kind. Global warming is going to either drown or toast us. Banks are refusing to lend us money. Soon we will no longer be able to afford to buy gas. Now there is a global food shortage and we may all starve. At minimum, it will cost an arm and a leg to eat.
This is great news for habitual dieters. Forget about Atkins, South Beach and Blood Type diets. Unaffordable food is a sure fire method of reducing caloric and fat intake. Celebrities are dropping the Cocaine and Marly diet in anticipation of this new fad.
I pine for the days of old when it was much easier to survive: swarming locusts; marauding barbarians; the plague; and consumption. Life was so much simpler back then.
It seems that we are so keen to be green that we have started burning half of our crops to fuel engines instead of using oil. The US government has generously incentivised this practice to thwart the Arabs. Let alone is it a significant contributor to the food shortage, it is reported to be worse for the environment than fossil fuels.
Bravfuckingo!
A combination of the reduction of arable land and fat bastards in the West who can eat the own body weight in a week have tipped the demand scales into a supply shortage.
If the crisis reaches fever pitch, I am willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for my love. I will suggest to Mrs. BB that in the event of anarchy, she eats me to survive. I trawl the internet for recipe ideas and prepare to make a number of marinades in advance. I make a note to stock up on skewers and charcoal and to pre-book a butcher.
Over a fine dinner starting with scallops and boudin noir in drizzled warm maple syrup accompanied by a 02 Puligny Montrachet followed by pan braised elk served rare on a pillow of whipped yams with a porcini and shallot red wine jus and an 82 Latour and concluding with a warm chocolate fondant with raspberry coulis a 98 Valpolicella and a wafer thin mint, the conversation inevitably strays to the global food shortage.
I ask my love what we will do in the event of a crisis. My emotions are swelling as I prepare to communicate to her my ultimate sacrificial pledge, recipe book in tow replete with helpful ideas and tips.
‘Darling, don’t worry’ Mrs BB whispers gently in a comforting tone, ‘if worse comes to worse you can convert all of the land you bought in Iowa for bio fuels and we can grow our own crops instead. No one is going starve sweet heart.’
I grow silent in slight embarrassment. She is right. I am saved. I keep mum and shelve my plans.
Mrs. BB has the beauty of a goddess, the brains of a rocket scientist, and the patience of a saint... and she loves my cooking. I love her sooo much! I love her more than chocolate!
I prepare the larder for a 2 ton delivery of sawdust. It makes a mean baking loaf and is gluten free.
Beaverboosh
Friday, April 25, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Extreme Makeover: Office Edition
I cannot see the tranquil view of the fjord through the piles of papers on my desk. They spread throughout my office reaching epidemic proportions. The door to my office squeaks like the loo door on a sea trawler as endless traffic parades through. Bar my all star delivery bitches, most visitors are unwelcome time wasters that bore me and keep me from mission critical tasks such as online shopping and blogging.
Something must be done. I believe an extreme office makeover is the answer. I desire a balanced design that puts me in better harmony with an environment in which I spend much too much time.
I consider my requirements. I wish my office to have the ambiance of a boutique hotel, a Philippe Starck design perhaps. A restaurant serving fresh fusion food, a bar with a world class mixologist, a gym and yoga studio, and a health pod offering a range of spa treatments and medical advice. Oh yes, and a ballroom as I wish to learn to ballroom dance in my spare time.
This will be a great challenge to fit in to 30 square metres and on a budget of 2,000 USD. I tender the project to 3 capable firms with solid track records.
The Feng Shui man inspects the space and walks me through his proposal. Nothing too radical, just a rearrangement of the deck chairs. He points out that we must change the location of the door. It opens up to an area housing my all star delivery bitches. The negative yin coming through the open door is not good for me and will give me a stroke. Next to the view of the fjord, this is a favourite area to train my eyes on. I thank him and show him out of an imaginary door that drops 7 stories.
The German design team do not show up in the flesh choosing to video conference. They speak in Teutonic tongues and frankly I haven’t a clue what they are trying to communicate to me other than it involves concrete and steel and requires me to dress in tight leather and cotton t-shirts. I fake my own death during the video conference, something I am told is frightful to witness but gives me the giggles.
The Management Consultants send a young bid team with a very sexy presentation. They are less concerned with aesthetics and focus on productivity. They break the news to me bluntly that my requirements exceed the scope of my budget and recommend a 5 point plan, adding that if we can achieve 3, we will have succeeded:
1) A clean desk policy with an aggressive shredding programme
2) A drawer in my desk containing a wet bar and snacks
3) A list of telephone numbers for asian fusion and sushi delivery
4) A yoga mat
5) A large battery powered vibrating massage device.
They are sharp and focused if not a little aggressive. The hair on the back of my neck is up. I like the cut of their jibs. I try to catch them out and query them on proposals for reducing the volume of visitor traffic.
This is the pièce de résistance. They can hardly contain themselves and crack wry smiles. They advise planting anti-personnel devices just inside the door of my office. 3D glasses providing a secure rumba path through will be offered to my all star delivery bitches and welcome visitors. All unauthorised traffic will get the message pretty quickly.
Brilliant!
In preparation for the changes I enrol in rumba lessons and ready my fingers for more activities of the online variety.
In confidence, the large battery powered vibrating massage device frightens me, though it is kind of exciting.
Beaverboosh
Something must be done. I believe an extreme office makeover is the answer. I desire a balanced design that puts me in better harmony with an environment in which I spend much too much time.
I consider my requirements. I wish my office to have the ambiance of a boutique hotel, a Philippe Starck design perhaps. A restaurant serving fresh fusion food, a bar with a world class mixologist, a gym and yoga studio, and a health pod offering a range of spa treatments and medical advice. Oh yes, and a ballroom as I wish to learn to ballroom dance in my spare time.
This will be a great challenge to fit in to 30 square metres and on a budget of 2,000 USD. I tender the project to 3 capable firms with solid track records.
The Feng Shui man inspects the space and walks me through his proposal. Nothing too radical, just a rearrangement of the deck chairs. He points out that we must change the location of the door. It opens up to an area housing my all star delivery bitches. The negative yin coming through the open door is not good for me and will give me a stroke. Next to the view of the fjord, this is a favourite area to train my eyes on. I thank him and show him out of an imaginary door that drops 7 stories.
The German design team do not show up in the flesh choosing to video conference. They speak in Teutonic tongues and frankly I haven’t a clue what they are trying to communicate to me other than it involves concrete and steel and requires me to dress in tight leather and cotton t-shirts. I fake my own death during the video conference, something I am told is frightful to witness but gives me the giggles.
The Management Consultants send a young bid team with a very sexy presentation. They are less concerned with aesthetics and focus on productivity. They break the news to me bluntly that my requirements exceed the scope of my budget and recommend a 5 point plan, adding that if we can achieve 3, we will have succeeded:
1) A clean desk policy with an aggressive shredding programme
2) A drawer in my desk containing a wet bar and snacks
3) A list of telephone numbers for asian fusion and sushi delivery
4) A yoga mat
5) A large battery powered vibrating massage device.
They are sharp and focused if not a little aggressive. The hair on the back of my neck is up. I like the cut of their jibs. I try to catch them out and query them on proposals for reducing the volume of visitor traffic.
This is the pièce de résistance. They can hardly contain themselves and crack wry smiles. They advise planting anti-personnel devices just inside the door of my office. 3D glasses providing a secure rumba path through will be offered to my all star delivery bitches and welcome visitors. All unauthorised traffic will get the message pretty quickly.
Brilliant!
In preparation for the changes I enrol in rumba lessons and ready my fingers for more activities of the online variety.
In confidence, the large battery powered vibrating massage device frightens me, though it is kind of exciting.
Beaverboosh
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Rain in Spain
I have only experienced horizontal rain in Asian monsoons and Caribbean hurricanes if I exclude visits to the West coast of Norway. Oh yes, and the West coasts of: England; Scotland; Wales; Ireland; and, occasionally North America.
It is depressing and seriously fucks with my golf karma.
I read in the Times on Tuesday that Spain is suffering its worst drought in 4 decades. This story is barely palatable. Climatologists suggest Spain is one of the countries worst affected by global warming, though claim very leaky pipes are a big part of the water shortage. Valencia and Catalonia are the hardest hit regions.
No such luck in Andalucia. The weather gods are conspiring with the golf gods to punish me for one of my many sins. Though I am agnostic, a sin in itself, this often happens to me when visiting Catholic countries. I am holed up safely in the Casa as the wind whistles around corners and the rain pelts the windows.
Even the wildlife has taken refuge. Tuesday morning, Mother duck waddles by the Casa with her gaggle of chicks in tow in search of higher ground. It is very cute but signals to me the dangers at hand. Ducks are good swimmers. They are seeking higher ground. Something wicked this way comes.
Rabbits are not good swimmers. I awake Wednesday morning to a stream of dead bunnies in front of the Casa. It is like Watership Down on acid. I can only assume the local warren has flooded and has spilled onto the property. Mrs. BB weeps like a child for the bunnies. Seeing her in this state breaks my heart. I hug and console her promising to dispose of the carnage shortly after breakfast.
Surveying the task at hand I select a 3 iron from my golf bag. I will repatriate the rabbits to their hole in the rough next to the fairway, a sort of makeshift par 3 mass burial. The bunnies are small but very wet. I change clubs opting for a fairway metal with more loft.
With a gale force 5 to my back the trajectory of the flight is high. The greyness of the horizon is intermittently broken by rabbits gracefully sailing through the air. No holes in one but all makeable birdie putts. I take them as ‘gimmes’ and leave the putter in the bag. This is the only opportunity I will have to swing a club this week and I feel much better for it.
My Spanish amigos are relieved the forecast indicates He will rest on the 7th day. I think He will need a few weeks’ holiday. After the havoc wreaked here He must be spent. I am grateful the weather will be pleasant on Sunday for the drive to Seville to catch the flight back to Oslo, were it is forecast to, uhm… well rain.
I should have listened to Eliza’s repeated warnings and avoided the plains.
Beaverboosh
It is depressing and seriously fucks with my golf karma.
I read in the Times on Tuesday that Spain is suffering its worst drought in 4 decades. This story is barely palatable. Climatologists suggest Spain is one of the countries worst affected by global warming, though claim very leaky pipes are a big part of the water shortage. Valencia and Catalonia are the hardest hit regions.
No such luck in Andalucia. The weather gods are conspiring with the golf gods to punish me for one of my many sins. Though I am agnostic, a sin in itself, this often happens to me when visiting Catholic countries. I am holed up safely in the Casa as the wind whistles around corners and the rain pelts the windows.
Even the wildlife has taken refuge. Tuesday morning, Mother duck waddles by the Casa with her gaggle of chicks in tow in search of higher ground. It is very cute but signals to me the dangers at hand. Ducks are good swimmers. They are seeking higher ground. Something wicked this way comes.
Rabbits are not good swimmers. I awake Wednesday morning to a stream of dead bunnies in front of the Casa. It is like Watership Down on acid. I can only assume the local warren has flooded and has spilled onto the property. Mrs. BB weeps like a child for the bunnies. Seeing her in this state breaks my heart. I hug and console her promising to dispose of the carnage shortly after breakfast.
Surveying the task at hand I select a 3 iron from my golf bag. I will repatriate the rabbits to their hole in the rough next to the fairway, a sort of makeshift par 3 mass burial. The bunnies are small but very wet. I change clubs opting for a fairway metal with more loft.
With a gale force 5 to my back the trajectory of the flight is high. The greyness of the horizon is intermittently broken by rabbits gracefully sailing through the air. No holes in one but all makeable birdie putts. I take them as ‘gimmes’ and leave the putter in the bag. This is the only opportunity I will have to swing a club this week and I feel much better for it.
My Spanish amigos are relieved the forecast indicates He will rest on the 7th day. I think He will need a few weeks’ holiday. After the havoc wreaked here He must be spent. I am grateful the weather will be pleasant on Sunday for the drive to Seville to catch the flight back to Oslo, were it is forecast to, uhm… well rain.
I should have listened to Eliza’s repeated warnings and avoided the plains.
Beaverboosh
Friday, April 4, 2008
Maasai Marathon
I am in London on business and find all of my running colleagues hitting me up for a contribution to their charities for the annual marathon. There is great excitement this year as 6 Maasai warriors are arriving from Tanzania to run the London Marathon on the 13th of April. They are alleged to be so fierce that they kill lions with their bare hands, good skills to have in the city.
The warriors have been given a special 4 page guide on how to deal with the English with a special focus on, as the Telegraph describes it, ‘the most curmudgeonly species they may ever encounter: the English office worker.’
Quoting the guide, ‘You may be surprised by the number of people that are rushing around everywhere. Even though some may look like they have a frown on their face they are very friendly people – many of them just work in offices, jobs they don’t enjoy, and so they do not smile as much as they should.’
As one who ‘just works in offices’ and generally enjoys my job, I would agree with the Telegraph. I found many of the frowning people in offices in England to be absolute cunts. But not everyone has done the extensive anthropological field research that I have, mainly in pubs near offices.
Let us examine this pithy pocket pathfinder further shall we.
‘You will see many people in England who are wearing only small clothes and you will wonder why they are cold and may think this is disrespectful. This is normal for England…’ This is a valuable piece of advice for the Maasai, especially if they choose to go clubbing in the North of England. Regardless of the season, most girls exhibit in a slip with headlights on high beams. Knickers are optional as they usually will not be required within an hour.
The guide goes on to point out, ‘However, it is illegal to show certain parts of the body and for this reason, it is important the Maasai wear their underpants when wearing their blankets.’ Clearly the authors of this guide have no experience in any major English city when at the stroke of midnight most men turn into walking genitalia while princesses turn into slags.
The guide offers a questionable view on drinking. ‘Many people drink alcohol in England. They do so at pubs and clubs, the equivalent of a Maasai party. When people drink, they seem sillier or different.’ Everyone in England drinks, and drinks frequently. Alcoholism is a social institution. When people are sober, they often seem much sillier and different than when you have had a drink and it all makes sense.
I have decided to make a generous pledge to a few of my frowning banking colleagues running the marathon. The deal comes with a performance clause - they must survive the marathon.
To fund this generous pledge I have set up a spreadbetting index and am taking positions.
I have hedged with the Maasai who will be running the marathon dressed in full battle regalia. They will be in the money if they track down the bankers and execute them in any traditional manner they choose. The guide mentions nothing of this and I assure the Maasai they will be doing England a great favour.
The spread is tight but I am already counting my chickens.
Beaverboosh
The warriors have been given a special 4 page guide on how to deal with the English with a special focus on, as the Telegraph describes it, ‘the most curmudgeonly species they may ever encounter: the English office worker.’
Quoting the guide, ‘You may be surprised by the number of people that are rushing around everywhere. Even though some may look like they have a frown on their face they are very friendly people – many of them just work in offices, jobs they don’t enjoy, and so they do not smile as much as they should.’
As one who ‘just works in offices’ and generally enjoys my job, I would agree with the Telegraph. I found many of the frowning people in offices in England to be absolute cunts. But not everyone has done the extensive anthropological field research that I have, mainly in pubs near offices.
Let us examine this pithy pocket pathfinder further shall we.
‘You will see many people in England who are wearing only small clothes and you will wonder why they are cold and may think this is disrespectful. This is normal for England…’ This is a valuable piece of advice for the Maasai, especially if they choose to go clubbing in the North of England. Regardless of the season, most girls exhibit in a slip with headlights on high beams. Knickers are optional as they usually will not be required within an hour.
The guide goes on to point out, ‘However, it is illegal to show certain parts of the body and for this reason, it is important the Maasai wear their underpants when wearing their blankets.’ Clearly the authors of this guide have no experience in any major English city when at the stroke of midnight most men turn into walking genitalia while princesses turn into slags.
The guide offers a questionable view on drinking. ‘Many people drink alcohol in England. They do so at pubs and clubs, the equivalent of a Maasai party. When people drink, they seem sillier or different.’ Everyone in England drinks, and drinks frequently. Alcoholism is a social institution. When people are sober, they often seem much sillier and different than when you have had a drink and it all makes sense.
I have decided to make a generous pledge to a few of my frowning banking colleagues running the marathon. The deal comes with a performance clause - they must survive the marathon.
To fund this generous pledge I have set up a spreadbetting index and am taking positions.
I have hedged with the Maasai who will be running the marathon dressed in full battle regalia. They will be in the money if they track down the bankers and execute them in any traditional manner they choose. The guide mentions nothing of this and I assure the Maasai they will be doing England a great favour.
The spread is tight but I am already counting my chickens.
Beaverboosh
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