Regular readers will have both noticed that it’s been a little quiet around here. This is due to “stuff”.
Stuff the first: Technical problems.
“Somehow” a sliver of brass got into the laptop and caused a short, preventing the laptop from starting up. The proud supplier of laptop told me it was able to do this because the battery was “smart”. I replied if it was that bloody smart it would have said “oi, get this damn metal splinter out of me”. Evidently we both have a different definition of “smart”, and his attempts to explore how the said brass bit got into the system in the first place came to dead end.
On the up side, I did get some nice brass buckles and lorica fittings made while the laptop was in the shop.
Stuff 2: Illness
Illness v1.0 – Father. Father had an episode and spent from last Thursday until yesterday in ICU. He is now in a medical ward, where a chap called Jeffery comes in and declares “he don know wot it is but we get the head doctor to look k?” every now and then, and he is otherwise employed as a poke test dummy for the talking sperms that the Hutt Valley Health board employs as “doctors”.
Q. What’s got eight legs, no pubic hair and can recite every episode of Grey’s Anatomy word perfect?
A. My father’s medical team.
That’s not all that funny you know.
Yes I had noticed.
Illness 2v.0 – Jessica. As you both know Jessica is an old cat (17), but the cries of “oh well if shes sick just kill her” – or more politely framed versions of the same – fall on deaf ears. If you’re an animal person you bankrupt yourself or go out in a blizzard armed with nothing more than pistol and a happy smile to keep them alive and safe from sickness, dumb-ass trappers and coyote.
Jessica needs a full dental work over because of various mouth “stuff” making her saliva non-operational in the cleaning department. Currently grooming duties have fallen to me. Jessica’s doctor tells me the operation requires a general, and “comes with some risk” which is doc-speak for could kill her, but this one is old enough to remember that our first woman PM was in fact Jenny Shipley, so I’m going to let the dice fly on this one.
Being a semi-employed siege engineer, I’m somewhat short in the “having great wads of cash laying about the house” department, so if any of you happen to have $5 to spare to help with the clean my cat’s teeth fund, a donation to PayPal via this account would be very much appreciated. firstname.lastname@example.org
Stuff c: Artillery.
I haven’t been idle (comparatively speaking), and I’ve just spent the last three days and nights at the Great Lake Medieval Festival where I commanded the non-gunpowder artillery on a ridge above the combat area now known forever after as “Artillery Hill”… as am I. It was damned hot, with people clustering under the trees like sheep… but with less random pooping.
On the last day the artillery both non-gunpowder and the dirty, noisy smelly, “scares the horses can’t hit shit” versions joined in te melee’. For some reason the loud people took offence at my use of live ammo (tennis ball my liege – I want to be Brian Blessed if I grow up BTW) and they decided to return in kind. By firing the tennis ball BACK via stuffing in the end of their overgrown noise maker.
Their efforts to turn my tennis balls to gun stones (if only we’d started calling them cannon balls sooner that line would have been some much tidier) we’re something of a failure. They did bring me the still smouldering remains of charred rubber and scorched yellow fur, but it was all asshole and elbows for the artillery duel of the decade… weekend. Whatever.
A change of munitions was called for, and the popgun team bribed the archers to enchage me in hopes I’d forget them. Interesting side bar trend setters, did you know that simply traversing your mangonel towards archers will make them run away?
Shot one of the HVFS* load struck directly in front of the popgun, and all were showered by shrapnel resulting in alarm and despondency amongst the crew and members of the public nearby, who were being used as human shields by the powder monkeys.
Shoot the hostage I say.
Chucky racks up another fruity flavored kill.
*High Velocity Fruit Salad (apple in this case).
Stuff the E: Socializing. Caught up with Tom Paine (whose employers are cock-heads… or Australians, you choose) and we dropped in on David Phyliss Farrar to discuss this “republican” thing. Dave fed and watered us and we agreed to disagree, and David for his part accepted that the cement shoes and chains were in fact “flotation aids” so its all good.
Also dropped through Oswald’s neck of the woods… well plains really. Oswald is likewise being poked and prodded by the youth aid wing of a health board, and has lost his winter insulation to the point of needing a new gun belt, so it doesn’t slide off. Of course he’ll need a couple of piece makes to go with it.
You’re never so sick that a new handgun or two can’t perk you up.
Right, I have to get back to plotting how to avoid gunpowder monkey revenge at the next WMD.