I am just so damn proud of the USA...

I just read a story from the London Daily Mail that made me so gosh darn proud of my country that I knew I had to share it with you.

And to provide you with the appropriate soundtrack for your reading, here's a little patriotic music to read by:

(the good part starts at 0:33)



Okay, now on with the story.

Well, it seems that folks in old blighty have started to take after their corpulent younger cousins and obesity is quickly becoming common over there as well.

This has all the usual side effects; poor health, fat out of shape kids, and the breakdown of the family as people eat too much fast food, cats and dogs living together, fire and brimstone being rained from heaven, all that end of the world crap.

Now, for whatever reason they cremate a large proportion of dead people in England (I would assume land constraints, but I don't know so I'm not going to guess), like 2/3rds.

And this pandemic obesity is causing a problem with their crematoria. You see, the average English coffin is 16 to 20 inches across. Well, that's before Burger King. So their crematoria are built to handle that sized coffin. Problem is, there's a growing segment (the segment is growing, as well as each of the people in that segment, don't you know) of their population which is requiring coffins up to 40 inches wide.

Wide load, indeed.

So, what's this got to do with America? Well, in retrofitting their crematorium "fleet", English companies are having to turn to American companies:

"Among them Lewisham in South London has ordered a 44 inch cremator from the United States, where the world's highest rates of obesity means the funeral trade is geared up to meet the problem."

Alright! We're the world's leading exporter of fatass-fryers!

Let's hear it for the good-ole, corpulent, USA!

What do you think you get for frequent flier miles?

Have you guys heard about the Rocketplane XP? Being built by a private company in Oklahoma, made up of a shadowy bunch of ex-aerospace industry guys (one had experience on the SR-71 blackbird program and has done contracts for DARPA, the secret hi-tech defense guys) and political hacks (a bunch of ex-NASA guys, and the chairman of the board is a two-time Republican Convention Delegate), the Rocketplane should be lifting off sometime in late 2007 or early 2008 carrying four suckers who pay $250,000 to go 100 kilometers into space and experience weightlessness for 3-4 minutes.

The technology looks neat, if somewhat limited in its application. It's pushed by two conventional turbofan jet engines, and one kerosene-fueled rocket engine related to the Atlas Rocket engines. Only 43 feet long (smaller than a 8 person private jet) this puppy will get to Mach 3.5, reach a minimum apogee of 34 miles, upside down so you can look out the roof and see Mama Earth, and then land at a normal airfield in unpowered flight mode (ie, you're gliding... Yeah, that sounds fun.).

Anyway, they've got a fairly developed website where they solicit your requests to be separated from a quarter million of your hard earned money. They've got some interesting schematics of some of the technological features of the craft, some which raise more questions than provide answers.

For example: The ventilation system is designed to provide clean, dry air to the cabin, contains a chemical scrubber to remove CO2, and is specially designed to filter out "any foreign items such as dirt, hair, or vomit that may be released in the cabin".

Umm...

Okay.

I can see some concern about vomit. That makes sense; you're going to be pulling 3-4 G's, and that may trigger a re-run of lunch. And dirt, well, sure, whatever. I mean, I would assume they're not doing the whole clean room thing that made John Kerry look like such an ass when he visited NASA, but I would be concerned if they're expecting too much dirt. Maybe they should vacuum more often. And, you know, "dirt" is sometimes a euphemism for something else, something a little more squishy than what we usually think of as dirt, but instead of counting on a filter to take that stuff out of the air, maybe they should just take a tip from this person, and issue each passenger their own Depends.

It's that middle thing on the list that's giving me a little problem. Hair? They're expecting hair to be released in the vehicle? Maybe they are expecting to have Lisa Nowak (from link in that last paragraph) and want to protect against the stray public hairs that come loose during groovy zero-G lovemaking. And you new know when Clarence Thomas may make a reservation and you'd hate to have a repeat of that whole "who put a public hair on my diet coke" thing.

Of course, this isn't the only way you can get into space. Over at Space Travellers you can book a flight on a Mig-25 Foxbat. That baby'll get you 15-20 miles up, about the right height to see the curve of the earth and high enough that you're wicked screwed when your assembled - by - disgruntled - commies - after - vodka - break aircraft falls apart.

By the way, "travellers" isn't a typo. The folks who run the website can't spell, but they can send you into space. Go figure.

Anywho, there are a number of adventures to be had from the old Soviet space program, but not that flight to the International Space Station Lance Bass was supposed to take a bunch of years ago. You can though, for the price of either $5.50 US$ or $5,500 (again, these guys should hire an editor, it would give me a little more confidence in their abilities) book a trip to Kazakhstan this October to watch the liftoff of a Soyuz rocket bound for the ISS.

For that dough you get accommodations at a 3 star hotel (I'm guessing it's no worse than the Day's Inn in Durham, NC), and all "transportations" in Moscow and Star City (the old Soviet kosmodrome in Bakinour, Kazakhstan (including "economy class" airfare from Moscow to Baiknour... Economy class Russian airlines? Boy, that sounds fun...)

You also get to watch preparations and training, and have a special seat in the VIP section of the stands watching the liftoff. Again, this is Russian space technology we're talking about here, so remember to bring your umbrella to deflect flaming chunks of rocket should the thing blow up on the pad.

Oh, by the way, handicapped folks need not apply, as the homebase for the pinnacle of commie technology doesn't have any elevators.

Me, I'll stick with driving fast and watching Borat again today, thank you very much.

Google Paper, what a deal!

You guys been on gmail yet? They've got a new feature, where they'll mail your email to you.

What a deal! If you don't really like electronic mail, they'll send you your emails through the US Postal system, printed out on paper!

For free!

How can they afford this, you ask?

Well, they'll include ads on the back of the emails, in large, red type.

Still, sounds like a wicked deal, doesn't it? I had a few ex-bosses who would have loved this option, as they seemed to just print out and read all their emails anyway.

And over on Googlesightseeing.com they've got a story about the great new feature on from Google, live satellite imagery on GoogleEarth!

But the more I thought about this, the more worried I became. I mean, wouldn't this be a perfect tool for terrorists or something? What the heck are the folks at Google thinking?

So I called the State Department and told them what the folks over at Google were up to. I mean, not the mail thing. That's cool. But the whole real-time satellite imagery open to anyone. That's no good. Jeez, those guys could launch cruise missiles or something!

Oh, yeah. Happy April 1st.

What the #$!@#%$! time is it anyway?!?

I interrupt my ongoing education of Gino to the dangers of Global Climate Change to bitch about one of the "solutions" to climate change.

Meet Ed Markey. Ed's the congressman from the 7th Massachusetts congressional district, and proud father of the provision of the 2005 Energy Bill which has screwed up to a far-thee-well every computer clock in this once proud nation. (Apparently, this picture shows Ed discarding the Parliamentarian of the House's advice not to run, and debate, with scissors.)

Anyway, where once America was an industrial giant and leader of the free world, the last two weeks have seen our great nation humbled and humiliated, as people across the continent have missed meetings, missed trains, and been generally lost, time-wise. Our Outlook calendars are a mess; meeting requests from non-updated computers are off by an hour, and we can never figure out which way their off, so we end up making them two hours off by trying to fix them. And commuting in the dark to work? That's sooo February. We were supposed to have commuting in the light by this time!

Now our good congressman thinks that he was doing something positive for energy efficiency by moving the time change. He points to the $4.4 billion in energy usage which will be saved by 2020. He points to the safety aspects, that late afternoon drivers will have more daylight, so perhaps fewer kids will get run over by dim-sighted old farts.

But I fear poor Ed was a dupe in all this. Ed was clearly a tool of the charco-golf industrial complex. As Deep Throat said, uggblaug-gaaaggg... Oops, not that Deep Throat... As the Watergate Deep throat said, follow the money...

Who stands to make out in all this? Why, the Golf industry. And the recreational grilling industry, that's who!

Read this, from Scott Deveau, in the Canadian Financial Post:

According to the congressional testimony in 1985, the golf industry estimated an extra month of daylight saving would amount to US$200-million in extra equipment sales and green fees. Even barbecue manufacturers came forward saying it could amount to an additional US$100-million in grill and charcoal briquette sales.

When it stays lighter for longer in the day, these folks figure they make more money. We'll all be golfing at 7pm in March, apparently.

Well that's it! I'm not going to be some tool of the dread leisure industry. That's right: Kal's World is now a DST-free zone. Please remember to adjust your watches when you leave.

Hitman Needed, Include References and Salary Requirements

"It's just that wasting old ladies isn't nice." - Otto West, A Fish Called Wanda

One of my many bosses at work is planning a nice little mid-fall trip, one of her many, many vacation forays, to a tropical island in the western Antillies. Problem is, her elderly aunt is at Death's door. Well, perhaps walking up Death's front walk, or maybe just admiring Death's farmers porch. She is certainly loitering somewhere in Death's front yard like a meter reader searching for the watermeter, and, wouldn't you know it, Death hasn't trimmed his hedges in ages.

If Auntie were to shuffle off this mortal coil, then, in proper Irish-American fashion, Little Mary Wimpypooh would have to fly home from her tropical vacation and do the whole waking/mourning/drinking/arguing/burying/drinking/arguing thing. Now, if Auntie were to have the common decency to pass three or four days before the flight is scheduled, then Mary could do the proper Irish mourning, and wing off to climes tropical.

But the problem is, Auntie is rallying. Or maybe not. Allegedly in a coma two or three days ago, she was downright perky last night. But there's still enough time until departure for a couple more go-arounds; rallying and failing, rallying and failing. And it's not like we're talking about some middle-aged person for whom their passing would be for their family a tragedy beyond all understanding; this is an ooooold lady who's about to get her reward for a lifetime of 9:00 weekday masses and at least three Mary's on the Halfshell (seriously, there oughta be a law...).

So, in the interest of helping out Little Mary Wimpypooh, I am seeking the services of a gentleman with certain, shall we say, talents. Now, we've taken up a collection here at work, and we've gotten it up to about $8.37, but, really, it's not like I'm asking you to take out the Pope, for goodness sakes. One well-placed trip over a cord could probably do the job. Think of the good you'd be doing; Mary would get to go on her annual pilgrimage to tropical climes where pliant non-english speaking cabana boys await to fufil her every desire (hey -- get that mind out of the gutter, I'm talking about drink orders!! -wink wink-), Auntie would meet her maker and finally learn the truth about what happened on the Grassy Knoll, and, for you, Mr. Professional Assassian of Old Ladies, there may be some work in it for you later -- Motherdear ain't getting any younger. Or, for that matter, is Wifeypooh....

Wifeypoohish

The Independent, a British newspaper, has online [pardon me while I dangle my participle] a story about a new study with the troubling news that the planet's languages are being lost at an alarming rate. Faster, indeed, than those subspecies of newts and gekkos we typically get ourselves so worked up about.

Apparently this planet has only 6,000 languages. (Actually, from experience in the Modern Historical Metropolis in which I work and play [don't tell wifey-pooh], I would say that that is about right. And 5,999 are spoken by local cabdrivers. Unfortunately, English is not one of them.) So, six point two billion people , 6,000 languages. Works out to about 104 million people per language. The US has, give or take, 290 million people, so we need about 2.9 languages. Makes sense: Spanish, Chinese, and American English, which is about .9 a real language.

[brother goodson interrupts: Hey, moron. Do the math. 6 billion (6 x 10^9) divided by 6 thousand (6 x 10^3), when dividing you subtract the exponents and get 1 x 10^6, or 1 million. (I took this right from his email, well, the math, not the "hey, moron", that was implied.) And yes, he's right. I did the math on my little calculator and figured out that I miscounted the zeroes. Fine, fine. The question is: who the hell actually does math with exponents? Sure, I may be a math imbecile, but at least I'm not a Freak. Here, here's a buck, go buy another pocket protector. Freak. We return you to the story, already in progress]

[brother goodson retort: Yeah, I'm a freak. With a Z4. And no wife. Suckaaaaaah]

Unfortunately, it doesn't work out like that, and 200 to 250 languages are the big bullies, all above one million speakers each, and 357 languages have under 50 speakers. Forty-six are known to have just one native speaker. One of these, no doubt, is wifeypoohish.

(I crack up just looking at that word. Wifeypoohish. Wifeypoohish. I'm dyin'!).

While wifeypoohish is related to English, it, much like the bushman language from "The Gods Must Be Crazy", contains several seemingly nonsensical sounds which actually carry significant linguistic importance.

Drawing another analogy from more commonly studied languages, like the Eskimo dialects which contain thirty-three words for snow, wifeypooish uses at least four hundred homonymic grunts and groans which, depending upon context, phrasing, tone, time of day, phase of the moon or butterfly migration patterns in China, can infer happiness, unhappiness, hunger, or deep homicidal intent.

And in closing: that Eskimo thing is bunkum. English has a ton of words for snow too, and, as a language that uses adjectives as appurtenant to nouns, and doesn't rely only on creating new words out of combining roots, we gots snow words up the ying-yang. Being frugal in most things, I only need one word for snow: shit.