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capital letters intrigue mungu
Wednesday, 30 April 2008 07:26 amGaah! This accursed and thrice-spat-upon campus so-called internet (hah!) is joyously swooping between no connectivity because the main server is faulty and keeps choking and dropping the connection, or no connectivity because there's malware on the system so the bandwidth is choked and keeps dropping the connection. Since any connection-droppage causes the web browser to frantically look for login confirmations, repeatedly, with increasing paranoid desperation, basically one may as well not bother. It's just taken me fifteen minutes to load this LJ post page. Pshaw. Likewise, Tchah! and Phooey!
So, the Billboard Poet of the Daily Voice is back:
VROT LIVES OF THE POTATO PEOPLE!
In my ongoing spirit of random analysis I draw your attention to the nifty correlation between "vrot" and "potato", "vrot" being a term equally applied to rotten vegetables and to a more general and abstracted sense of ickness. "Potato people" likewise invokes the classic tabloid interest in mutants, aliens, monstrosities and other weird humanoids. The whole gives a pleasingly fantastic spin to the underlying story, presumably one of straightforward poverty and poor working conditions.
I seem to have been very bad with blogging lately, and have not much to plead in mitigation other than above connectivity joys, and an entire weekend spent reading J.D. Robb and going to bed ridiculously early. Other than the bit where I spent the better part of eight hours lounging in a jaccuzzi drinking gin and tonics and eating Lindt chocolates, while appropriately 80s hits played rather loudly. (There's something terribly 80s about a jaccuzzi. What's with that?). Same house-sit place in Sea Point as last weekend, only more decadent. Apparently lounging in jaccuzzi, or possibly the bit where you jump into the pool at intervals to cool down, works all your muscles almost as much as a gym workout. Who knew?
Incidentally, in the Department of Subject Lines Not From A David Bowie Lyric, this one's from Order of the Stick. Meta orcs make me very, very happy.
Last Night I Dreamed: maddened fantasy politics, with me as a junior member of cabinet for a strong-minded female ruler who caused fluttering in dovecots by appointing her admittedly brilliant twenty-something daughter as Minister of Finance. Much hanging out around long wooden tables in mansions and castles, and using secret passages and concealment behind wall hangings to overhear conversations.
So, the Billboard Poet of the Daily Voice is back:
VROT LIVES OF THE POTATO PEOPLE!
In my ongoing spirit of random analysis I draw your attention to the nifty correlation between "vrot" and "potato", "vrot" being a term equally applied to rotten vegetables and to a more general and abstracted sense of ickness. "Potato people" likewise invokes the classic tabloid interest in mutants, aliens, monstrosities and other weird humanoids. The whole gives a pleasingly fantastic spin to the underlying story, presumably one of straightforward poverty and poor working conditions.
I seem to have been very bad with blogging lately, and have not much to plead in mitigation other than above connectivity joys, and an entire weekend spent reading J.D. Robb and going to bed ridiculously early. Other than the bit where I spent the better part of eight hours lounging in a jaccuzzi drinking gin and tonics and eating Lindt chocolates, while appropriately 80s hits played rather loudly. (There's something terribly 80s about a jaccuzzi. What's with that?). Same house-sit place in Sea Point as last weekend, only more decadent. Apparently lounging in jaccuzzi, or possibly the bit where you jump into the pool at intervals to cool down, works all your muscles almost as much as a gym workout. Who knew?
Incidentally, in the Department of Subject Lines Not From A David Bowie Lyric, this one's from Order of the Stick. Meta orcs make me very, very happy.
Last Night I Dreamed: maddened fantasy politics, with me as a junior member of cabinet for a strong-minded female ruler who caused fluttering in dovecots by appointing her admittedly brilliant twenty-something daughter as Minister of Finance. Much hanging out around long wooden tables in mansions and castles, and using secret passages and concealment behind wall hangings to overhear conversations.
