Sdtrk: ‘Ma recontre’ by Benjamin Biolay

I have to admit; the only Vonnegut that I’ve ever read would be Harrison Bergeron (for school) and Slaughterhouse-five (still a fantastic book), but I can definitely admire a bloke who not only came up with the concept of Ice-nine, but apparently had his den wallpapered with rejection notices from various publishers throughout the years.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Sdtrk: ‘Oh! How to do now’ by the monks

[02.34.27 PM] KrazyQ: Who will I turn to for my crocodile hunting training? WHO? Crocodile Dundee is only a FICTIONAL character and can teach me NOTHING. NOTHING!

Steve Irwin, long overdue for poetic justice, was finally hoisted by his own petard, via a vengeful manta ray’s tail stinger piercing his heart.

Obituary: Steve Irwin
BBC News | Monday, 4 September 2006, 10:26 GMT 11:26 UK

With his trademark khaki shorts, chirpy manner and an obvious love of wildlife, Steve Irwin was known to television viewers around the world simply as “the crocodile hunter”.

But Steve Irwin’s popular image, wrestling crocs and other creatures, belied the fact that he was implacably opposed to the hunting, not just of crocodiles, but of any animal.

A natural showman as well as a conservationist and zoo owner, Irwin was committed to educating people about wildlife.

He often did this by putting himself at great risk, confronting crocodiles, venomous snakes and other dangerous beasts in their own environment. This fascinating television was often punctuated by his trademark yell of “Crikey!”

But his unconventional approach drew criticism from those who believed his idiosyncratic style to be irresponsible and cavalier.
the rest of the article is here

There but for the grace of God goeth the Crocodile Hunter. Who will shout at and sexually molest the many animals of the world, now that he’s gone?

Technorati tags: Steve Irwin, animals, Crocodile Hunter, shouting, yelling

Sdtrk: ‘Woman, begone’ by Zeigenbock Kopf

Courtesy of The Diner [at] Penda’s Realm, naturally

DAD BOILED IN FETISH SUIT
By Don Mackay

KINKY Robert Garnett boiled to death after snorting a potentially lethal dose of cocaine and putting on a rubber suit, an inquest heard yesterday.

His body temperature soared, causing his brain to swell as he wore a fetishist-style gimp outfit seen in the film Pulp Fiction.

The 35-year-old McDonald’s burger bar manager – a separated dad of one – was found in his bedroom after relatives had reported him missing.

Medical experts said Mr Garnett, of Lambeth, South London. had hyperthermia leading to a build-up of brain fluid.

Pathologist Dr Peter Jerreat told the hearing at Southwark: “The rubber clothing caused excessive overheating.

“The toxicology reports revealed a potentially fatal level of cocaine.

“The contributory factor to his death was the presence of cocaine.”

Verdict: Accident.

*eyes PVC trousers suspiciously*
Obviously you have to be careful with that sort of thing. Whenever I’d wear my pair of PVC jeans for longer than half an hour, at the end of the day I’d take them off, and I’d feel like I’d been swimming.

Poor Robert Garnett. He died the way he lived — hopped up on coke, and marinating in his own juices while wearing latex gear

Sdtrk: ‘Beethoviana’ by Wendy Carlos

from the ‘No good’ files: Robert Moog, pioneer of the modular analogue synthesiser that bears his name, passed away yesterday.

Bob’s Body Leaves Us

ASHEVILLE, N.C. — August 21, 2005 — Bob died this afternoon at his home in Asheville, N.C. He was 71. Bob was diagnosed with brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme or GBM) in late April 2005. He had received both radiation treatment and chemotherapy to help combat the disease. He is survived by his wife, Ileana, his five children, Laura Moog Lanier, Matthew Moog, Michelle Moog-Koussa, Renee Moog, and Miranda Richmond; and the mother of his children, Shirleigh Moog.

Bob was warm and outgoing. He enjoyed meeting people from all over the world. He especially appreciated what Ileana referred to as “the magical connection” between music-makers and their instruments.

It goes without saying that Bob Moog changed the shape of music for the better. He will definitely be missed, but his legacy will live on

Sdtrk: ‘Blue skied an’ clear’ by Slowdive

You can blame SafeT’s comments and excessive viewing of Zip Gun’s ‘The Day Today’ DVD for this ‘un.

ROUEN, FRANCE (AP) – The music and entertainment world was stunned when Michael Jackson, the 46-year old King of Pop and world-famous child-toucher, was fatally shot several times by an angry passerby.

Jackson was having what appeared to be an impromptu celebration, due to the dropping of his recent child molestation charges, at a restaurant called ‘Le Lapin Gonflé’, on the outskirts of Paris. According to eyewitnesses, Jackson made a protracted attempt to order crepes, when area cynic Jean-Jacques ‘Le Jacques’ Chirac walked up to the party’s table, pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket, and emptied the magazine into the singer’s chest.

‘The shooting itself just happened so fast,’ said Peter Hurpingerder, one of Jackson’s attendants. ‘Michael wanted to order ten pounds worth of crepes and cheese for all of us, but wanted to place the order in French. He never knew the language, so he was stuttering and mumbling his way through it for five minutes. The waiter asked him several times to please repeat what he had said, and with every repetition, Michael’s voice grew more and more faint and incomprehensible. He had just managed to stammer out “je suis le canard gigantesque”, when that guy from that table over there stood up, walked quickly towards Michael, and started shooting. I dropped my dinner roll in abject fear.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to finish that roll,’ Hurderpinger added.

Jackson was hastily strapped onto a makeshift gurney and rushed to a nearby hospital, but it was too late. His body then began to slowly dissolve into a gooey flesh-coloured paste. Handlers carefully scooped the paste into a bucket, where it will be shipped back to Jackson’s Neverland Ranch following what passes for an autopsy.

Chirac, 38, was apprehended by local gendarmes and hustled to a nearby police station. Upon questioning if he had planned to assassinate the singer, Chirac lit a Gauloise and took a long, meaningful drag. ‘No,’ he answered in French, ‘I just wanted him to either speak up or shut up. His voice was like a high-pitched mumbling, like a fly stuck in my ear, endlessly saying nothing that I could understand. I am not sorry for what I have done, because life, she is like a crazy merry-go-round, and you can only hop on it once.’ As he spoke, the smoke from his cigarette wafted lazily through the room, much like the haze of questions that the reporters would surely have for him upon release to the general public.

Chirac then extracted a harmonica from his shirt pocket and played a stirring rendition of ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien’.

Upon hearing the news of their brother’s demise, Jermaine, Tito, and Harpo burst into loud, messy sobbing. Neither Janet or her breasts could be reached for comment.