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Admiral Draper's Really Really Boring and Totally Pointless Snippets of Information

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Admiral Draper's Really Really Boring and Totally Pointless Snippets of Information

Old 30th Jan 2019, 12:26
  #9481 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Nov 2013
Location: apogee
Age: 64
Posts: 57
1C here right now but no complaints.
-40C in Winnipeg. With wind chill........ -51C.
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Old 31st Jan 2019, 12:26
  #9482 (permalink)  
Cunning Artificer
 
Join Date: Jun 2001
Location: The spiritual home of DeHavilland
Age: 71
Posts: 3,106
Minus 6 in Hertfordshire this morning. I found ice on the inside of my windscreen and across the rear view mirror. I was well wrapped up, taking Granny Arnold's advice to the letter.
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Old 31st Jan 2019, 13:30
  #9483 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: May 2011
Location: Hampshire
Age: 71
Posts: 639
And I was rather surprised this morning to discover it was -7C in Basingstoke with the wind chill making it feel like -12C. Now that is a bit parky!
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Old 1st Feb 2019, 22:58
  #9484 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Aug 1998
Location: Ex-pat Aussie in the UK
Posts: 4,307
Did my UK tax, six hours before the deadline. Procrastination is my sin, it brings me endless sorrow. I really must stop doing it. ... In fact, I'll start tomorrow!

Thank you everyone for not filling up too many pages of reading whilst we were away in San Fran for a holiday. :/
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Old 2nd Feb 2019, 01:34
  #9485 (permalink)  

Bluey
 
Join Date: Nov 2000
Location: Perth, Western Australia
Posts: 354
Procrastination is my sin, it brings me endless sorrow. I really must stop doing it. ... In fact, I'll start tomorrow!
Well as they say, why do today what you can put off until tomorrow! Or something like that.
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Old 2nd Feb 2019, 04:17
  #9486 (permalink)  
Man Bilong Balus long PNG
 
Join Date: Apr 2002
Location: Still looking for that seemingly elusive bad bottle of Red but also counting down the days until I return to the Land of the Rising Sun for another three months of flying, eating and drinking!!
Age: 64
Posts: 2,512
Currently 40C out the back of the Pinky house again today. Tomorrow maybe a bit higher.
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Old 2nd Feb 2019, 05:50
  #9487 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Sep 2002
Location: Great South East, tired and retired
Posts: 2,169
Pinky, come to the Funshine Toast, only 26 here today.
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Old 2nd Feb 2019, 09:30
  #9488 (permalink)  
Man Bilong Balus long PNG
 
Join Date: Apr 2002
Location: Still looking for that seemingly elusive bad bottle of Red but also counting down the days until I return to the Land of the Rising Sun for another three months of flying, eating and drinking!!
Age: 64
Posts: 2,512
Ascend Charlie; That thought has crossed my mind more than once when it comes to retirement.

Although if I really had a 'dream come true' I'd kinda like to go where a former Ppruner, none other that the 'Chuckling Chimbu', currently has his home!

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Old 3rd Feb 2019, 16:06
  #9489 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Oct 2006
Location: UK
Posts: 4,502
Had a peculiar one on Friday.

Trundling around the supermarket I was getting a pack of yoghurts. There were normally three flavours but on the shelves one could only find the coconut flavour. I burrowed around underneath them and right at the back found a strawberry on. I loaded it into my trolley and eventually checked out and went home.

On unloading I found that I had a coconut flavoured yoghurt!

There is no way that I could have loaded the wrong one after the trouble I took as it wouldn't have left my hand en route to the trolley. Somebody, with the same problem as I had, must have switched it whilst I wasn't looking.

Reminded me of the seventies when one had to guard a bag of sugar.
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Old 3rd Feb 2019, 17:29
  #9490 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Nov 2013
Location: apogee
Age: 64
Posts: 57
Shopping in N. Korea?





Some recent events have reminded me that much of what appears to be non-racist behavior, non-racist positions are a PC veneer of varying thickness.
The public face of correctness, the targeted advertising of self, the disguise of what lies underneath at the never changing core.
Like icebergs with fake tops.

That Mercedes-Benz stadium looks like bad Escher.
Was the US government really only opened so the Super-Duper Bowl could proceed?

Last edited by meadowrun; 3rd Feb 2019 at 17:46.
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Old 3rd Feb 2019, 18:56
  #9491 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: Bournemouth
Age: 73
Posts: 22
Originally Posted by BlueDiamond View Post
Well as they say, why do today what you can put off until tomorrow! Or something like that.
Never put off to tomorrow what you can put off to the day after tomorrow.
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Old 3rd Feb 2019, 21:12
  #9492 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Sep 2002
Location: Great South East, tired and retired
Posts: 2,169
One less on the bucket list, did a 15,000' skydive yesterday, an absolute hoot to skid to a stop on my arse on the beach. Surprised by the noise of the wind rushing past my ears, relieved when the chute popped and that noise stopped.
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Old 3rd Feb 2019, 21:18
  #9493 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: MerryEngland
Posts: 54
So for a short time he was known as Descend Charlie.
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 00:01
  #9494 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Aug 1998
Location: Ex-pat Aussie in the UK
Posts: 4,307
Surprised by the noise of the wind rushing past my ears
I did a static-line jump many years ago, with my brother. The night previous was spent drinking rather heavily at a party with friends.

Packed into a small aircraft, approaching the jump point, I felt the need to move some wind of my own - and I thought (with an open door, in flight, air howling around the cabin) that it would be unoticeable, and I had better pop it now, rather than release something inadvertly more solid in the excitement of the descent. So I let loose, just as the instructor was crawling towards me in the hurricane of fresh air from that open door. Well - I had been drinking most of the previous evening - but the odur that I emitted in that moment is something that, even now, 35 years later, I can scarcely believe. Even amidst the howling fresh air from that open door, it stopped the instructor in his tracks as he was moving towards me. I honestly thought he would be "airsick" when I saw the expression on his face!

I did enjoy the jump after that, though - if only to leave the scene.
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 05:38
  #9495 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Nov 2003
Location: Australia
Posts: 279
SBDs (silent but deadly) will do that to you !!
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 08:08
  #9496 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Oct 2016
Location: South Beds
Posts: 73
Used to be known as a Butlers Revenge, releasing a SBD during a dinner party and staring accusingly at an awkward guest.
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 09:12
  #9497 (permalink)  
Man Bilong Balus long PNG
 
Join Date: Apr 2002
Location: Still looking for that seemingly elusive bad bottle of Red but also counting down the days until I return to the Land of the Rising Sun for another three months of flying, eating and drinking!!
Age: 64
Posts: 2,512
Devil

SBDs (silent but deadly) will do that to you !!
Struth, On Eyre..Did good Barossa Valley Mettwurst affect you in that way?
Not me I'm afraid. My deadly ones were never silent! Of course one never eats Mettwurst without a glass or three of a good Barossa Shiraz.
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 12:41
  #9498 (permalink)  
Cunning Artificer
 
Join Date: Jun 2001
Location: The spiritual home of DeHavilland
Age: 71
Posts: 3,106
My greatest ever SBD cleared an entire tail-bay in the Big Hangar at Brize Norton in 1973 when we were doing a VC10 engine change on night shift. The historic event resulted from Missus B's culinary experiment with liver, onions, garlic, fresh ginger and brussels sprouts. Everyone fled and I was banned from the LSS Crew-room for the rest of the night shift. The concoction was truly delicious but I have never dared to try eating it again.
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 12:53
  #9499 (permalink)  
Cunning Artificer
 
Join Date: Jun 2001
Location: The spiritual home of DeHavilland
Age: 71
Posts: 3,106

Just to illustrate the enormity of the event...
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Old 4th Feb 2019, 16:53
  #9500 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2015
Location: Cincinnati, Ohio
Posts: 164
Devil Monsieur Le Petomaine la Deuxieme

As the subject matter has wandered off in the direction of borborygyms, trouser trumpeting, and res excrementae, I offer the following TRUE story which first appeared almost a year ago in the Medical and Health thread:

- Ed

Paradise Lost or It Ain’t Necessarily So

Ah! Paradise! I was twenty-nine years of age living in a large home we owned on the tropical island nirvana called St. Simon’s Island, Georgia, USA. I had my Cessna 152 and a Bertram 47’ yacht to enjoy. A beautiful, loving wife, an intelligent, innately curious, and well formed ten-year-old son, an obedient, affectionate Siberian husky, and Oceanus Atlanticus as our back yard were mine in which to immerse myself and have an enduring sense of uninterrupted marvel. Until THAT DAY...


I had awakened and taken my early morning swim in the ocean. The sun had barely arisen. I returned to the house and reveled in the scent of gardenia and hyacinth and the fiery beauty of azalea and gentle pastels of dogwood. Raz (Rasputin), our Husky, looked at me with his impenetrable and inscrutable blue-eyed gaze – he wanted to go for a run on the beach. As I leaned over to pat him, I noted a distinct focal pain erupting in my nether regions. “Great”, I thought, “An ass pimple! Just what I need! NOT!” Raz and I went for a run and returned to a sumptuous breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, waffles, and tomato juice with a generous squeeze of lemon juice. As I got up from the kitchen table, I winced with the pinching pain bedeviling my “Taint”. For the medically uninitiated, the Taint is that exquisitely tender and sensitive parcel of skin which separates one’s rectum from one’s genitalia. ‘T’aint neither, as the olde saying goes...


I went to my office and had a fairly successful day selling residential real estate to unsuspecting victims, errr, grateful clientele. The only downside of the day was the crescendo of pain proximal to my keister. I had to sit on a seat cushion to enjoy a dinner of rare roast beef, fresh asparagus, potatoes au gratin, and lemon meringue pie (my death row meal!) I went to bed glad to be alive but with a literal pain in the ass.


A well-aimed ray of sunshine and an intractable stabbing unpleasantness du derrière awakened me with unwelcomed promptness. I leapt from the bed and walked slowly and bow-leggedly to the bathroom. I may as well have won an Emmy for imitating His Dukeness, John Wayne: as I passed my wide-eyed wife in the hallway, I said “There’s only room for the one of us in this town, Pilgrim!” Our shared laughter failed to erase my pain. I felt sufficiently agued to return to bed and to take the day off.


When High Noon was chiming on our grandfather clock, my considerate Bride waltzed into the bedroom, bearing a plate and bowl of delectables. (You should know at this point that she was the Secretary to the Teaching Professional at the Sea Island Golf Club. Sea Island is the sole Five-Star resort on our East Coast. Everything they do, including cooking, is top shelf.) She had brought a feast of crispy butter and bacon grease-golden brown fried chicken and cooked-all-morning-with-meaty-ham-hocks collard greens. All with lotsa NaCl. Who cares at that age, right? There were lighter than air biscuits as well. Note well that I am certain that I am an octoroon: I cannot bypass collards; their pot liquor – likker – is the nectar of the gods and good for you in seven different ways!


So it came to pass that I consumed a breast, a thigh, and a leg of tender, juicy, and perfect free-range chicken and, oh, about a half-bushel of greens and, let’s say, a cup of collard decant. I felt a moment of preternatural satisfaction which was immediately shattered by the bounding pulse I could feel – in my bottom! CURSES!


My Bride suggested that I contact our friend Tom, who was a talented Urologist and good friend whom I whupped at backgammon at regular intervals. She dialed the number, handed me the ‘phone, and went back to work. “Dr. Frankenstein’s office!” said Tom’s receptionist in her sexy voice, though she was sufficiently ugly to make a train take a dirt road. “May I help you?” “Yes. Yes you can!” I cried plaintively. “I have this pain in my, errr, ummm, and I can barely walk! I, aye, aye, aye!” I yelped as she broke into my pained rendition of Cielito Lindo, saying “Tom is free right now. Can you make it to the Mainland alright?” “I’ll be right there”, I exclaimed, moaning, groaning, and bitching, wishing that I had had unlimited access to NCC-1701 Starship Enterprise’s transporter.


I John-Wayne-Walked to my own Enterprise, a 1977 Oldsmobile 98 Regency (19’6” long! Curb weight 3 short tons!) with all the trimmings, including six-way velour seats and a tilting/telescoping steering wheel. Sitting was right out! I adjusted the wheel such that I could hold myself off the seat long enough to voyage the six miles to Tom’s office using cruise control without sitting into a vat of superheated radioactive lava.


I got a number of quizzical looks as I negotiated the causeway, but somehow made it to Tom’s office in one piece. Ringpiece, that is! Tom, who had obviously watched my clumsy exit from “The Enterprise”, met me in his anteroom. He said “Nice Wayne impression! Get your ass back to Exam Room #2!” I waddled back there. Tom commanded: “Drop trou!” I complied. “Bend over!” he said in Hitlerian tone of voice, as if my gluteus maximi were Austria and his middle name was Lebenschraum. After a cursory examination including a finger the size of the Empire State Building being inserted into an orifice the size of an Up Quark, Tom shrugged his shoulders as he removed his gloves, snapping them off one gigantic barbed wire wrapped digit after another. “You have a perineal cyst, mostly internal, the size of an orange. We have got to get it out NOW!” “Whuyut?” I asked in my finest I-really-don’t-want-surgery-today voice. “If that thing perforates, you’ll go into full-blown peritonitis. Best case: your plumbing, including John Thomas, never works again. Worst case: you’ll be taking a dirt nap!” Tom exclaimed. With a bony index finger which may as well have belonged to the skeletal Grim Reaper himself, he pointed in the direction of Brunswick Hospital, immediately across the street. He said “I’ll meet you there!” with the graveness, gravity, and financial depravity of an undertaker. There was, however, a twinkle in his eye. Perhaps he wanted me to pull his finger...


I duck-waddled like a platypus with cerebral palsy to the hospital and presented myself to the Emergency Room Admissions Nurse. I filled out enough bureaucratic paperwork to occupy several wings of the National Archives and presented my insurance information. The lovely nurse, who was obviously repressing the urge to say “I’m your biggest fan, Mr. Wayne!” asked if I had eaten anything over the last twelve hours. When I replied in the affirmative; she stated blandly “We’ll have to give you spinal anesthesia.”


And so it came to pass that I was curled up like a fetus on an operating table as a needle the size of a sawfish snout sought and found my L-3/L-4 intervertebral space. The anesthesiologist must’ve used blowfish poison; I was paralyzed and insensate from the waist down immediately. Ah! Blessed relief! By that time, I would have used a dull rusty axe to rid my hurting self from the intractable pain. Plus, there was the Valium being delivered via intravenous drip. I was thinking we should do this every day when I realized that my legs were being spread and my feet being clamped into gynecological examination stirrups. Uh Oh! Now they are taping my flaccid member and its two side vegetables to my right leg! Double Uh Oh!


Tom walks into the operating room, accompanied by an assistant surgeon, his nurse, and some stranger they probably found wandering around drunkenly on one of Sea Island’s numerous well-manicured golf courses. This makes a total of six people in the O.R., not counting me. They are all capped, gowned, and gloved and ready for action. (With a capital A! For Ass!) I am certain that they are barely able to contain their laughter regarding my plight. I don’t care. This benzodiazepine is sho’ ‘nuff de gude stoff, man!!! BRING IT ON!


Tom walks up to my right shoulder and asks if I would like to watch the procedure. I reply in the definite affirmative, hoping for an appearance in Grey’s Anatomy or America’s Most Wanted. A couple of staff members arrange overhead lights and trundled mirrors until I am rewarded with a clear view of a full blue/harvest/super Moon, which, when my visual focal length resolves, turns out to be the immensity of my back fanny! (Were they using fun house mirrors? I still don’t know the answer, but I dared not ask if my ass looked big in this.)


Suddenly, Tom and two assistants appear at my rear. Tom looks at the clock and says “First incision 1400 hours.” He cuts me up like a mother on speed might partition a banana with an ultramicrotome for her beloved child! Blood and pus. Something brown and ugly. Brown 29? No pain. A tornadic swirl of sponges and clamps and gloved hands and fingers. The hot stench of Bovie electrocautery. A cold swab across my forehead. Someone asks if I’m alright. I say “Hell YES!” Who needs wives and sons and dogs and planes and boats and sunrises and night’s sparkling constellations and oceans when ya got somebody cuttin’ ya up, but good?


Uh Oh! Look back a couple of paragraphs wherein I reference the paralytic effects of spinal anesthesia. See where it says that “I was paralyzed from the waist down immediately.” ‘S’truth. Every muscle group lower than my navel was on full autonomic autopilot. No voluntary control was possible. Including my rectal sphincter.


With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore - And then from my ass there arose such a clatter, I was afraid for all humans the Earth I would splatter. A veritable cacophony resembling the tuba sections of every marching band ever assembled on the face of this fragrant home planet burst forth! Once in total control, the circlet of orbicular musculature which had, at least for the most part for my twenty-nine years, controlled the gaseous and fecal exudates of my lower intestinal tract with admirable composure, gave way in complete and explosive surrender to the flatulogenic and malodorous effects of collards, fried chicken, anxiety, and some curry I had eaten a week before. Think Hindenburg without the flames... CatASStrophe!


Tom and the operative team beat a hasty Dunkirkian retreat to the furthest corner of the O.R. Tom ejaculated “Good God, Ed, WTF did you eat for lunch?” Everyone was frantically fanning their faces with their hands, including me! (It was as if I were a child taking piano lessons and hitting only clinkers!) One of the nurses could be seen dry heaving behind her mask. Another ran away! As if they were the collective consciousness of Father Damien's mother in The Exorcist, they sent me the telepathic interrogative: "Why you do this to me Dihmee?"


A few minutes later, they re-approached the operative site with the same caution a mongoose shows a King Cobra during monsoon season in the parking lot of a convenience store. Their foresight was well-founded; I did not disappoint. Just as Tom was using an admirable “interrumpted” suture technique to close my surgical wound, I let loose with a contrabassoon version of my two favorite composers’ - Rimsky and Korsakov - master oeuvre “Flight of the Bumblebee”. For a radius of one half mile, suddenly exfoliated trees bent double in supplication. The U.S. Army approached me to see if they could patent the horrid aroma of my flatulence to paralyze enema/y troops on the battle field. Mr. Methane retired from the stage, eventually taking his own life by assphyxia due to inhalation of "Gaz de Cavuman." Skunks slunk away, outclassed, disheartened and beaten.


Thus are the ways of perinea and perianalia.


It hurts to laugh!



- Ed

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