Especialista em aleatoridade, ganhador do prêmio nobel do charme, mestre em despejar água no filtro de cafe, gosta de longas caminhadas na praia após violentos massacres sanguinários.

Vagabundo por profissão, atoa por opção, idiota por exclusão, previsível por absurdo.

De 84 anos de idade, foi abduzido em 1934 e conservado todo esse tempo em uma banheira de anti-vida. Seus ossos tem coloração mínima de apenas 4 cores.


Carpe Noctem
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Deborah Happ

I'll build my own Republic, with black jack and hookers. In fact, screw the Republic!


The Space Saint

These are the chronicles of our trip to Malta and our narrow escape from the Maltese outerspace religion. The Maltese are a round (rotund?) humanoid race that inhabit a set of small hot islands south of southern Italy. They are primarily limestone miners and enjoy overcharging for cocktails. In their spare time they devote themselves to the "Space Saint". They believe that Saint George rode his horse to the moon to slay a moon dragon. This was such a laborious task, that came at such effort, that by the principle of holy exchange the Maltese people now have divine pardon to not exercise ever again. Similar to how Jesus' sacrifice gave an everlasting get-out-of-sin-free card, the Maltese now are not required to walk anywhere. There has been some evidence to back the story:
Such is their adoration of their Idol that they hold a lush celebration to honour his moon mission, where eating+drinking is kept at a high and moving to a low.

This food debauchery not only heightens his popularity, it also is an excellent occasion to eliminate non-believers. They made quick work of this one ...

The children carry out the executions as they are believed to be holy and are the only ones allowed to move in any significant way. Rob openly contested this, by whispering it to Art. After all, we had known Vitor (the buried one) for quite some time and had grown fond of him. He also said he would buy the next round.
Though we were somewhat shaken by Viktor's passing we continued to feast on the local delights, after all we had to get the most out of the ryanair flight to Malta. As outsiders we were clearly unwelcome so we camouflaged ourselves by swelling our bellies with food. This did work temporarily, much like confusing zombies by smearing rotten flesh on your body, until the ritual changed: the lights in the town started to flash in a simple monotone pattern and in response the locals fell into silence. A single trumpet player began.

We understood then that "Saint George" was coming. Space slime came gushing down filling the land, the locals squealed with joy shouting "here comes the GOZO" and did not run or swim away. Suddenly it all became clear, the gorging, the laziness, the aversion to walking, the island's name, the Gozians knew all along! ... they were preparing to offer themselves as a chunky sacrifice (what a honour for Vitkar!).  

The slime was dense and sticky. We looked at each in disbelief and with disgust. Before we could panic we remembered Vitor's last words: "don't take my swiss army knife". We opened up his knife and fumbled through the tools looking for something useful, and just our luck, there was a set of kayaks.

And just in time, as Saint George sent down a horde of moon monster jelly fish to feast and pre-digest the Gozians. This nutritive goo empowered Saint George, and he was furious that we narrowly escaped his warm wet blessing.

Our escape caused much stir in the heavenly council, for Saint George's power was on the rise, defying other demi-deities and getting his splogy gozo all over the heavenly hang-outs.

The verdict was unanimous: execute plan "beat up the popular kid", last put in to action in the days of Lucifer's fall. The problem was passed on to the Jesus League (of super Christian countries), who in turn, appointed Brazil to the task.

Brazil charged the most notorious Brazilian duo in the Ministry of Weird Religious Affairs (there are many ministries in the Brazilian government) known as Cafe com Leite (coffee with milk), with the take down of Saint George. These two special agents go under the code name Branquinha e Branquela (little white one and the whitey). They in turn subcontracted (a lot of that too in the BR government) two dangerous sea pirates, who in exchange for their services, could take any bounty encountered on the mission.

They set out in their rubber Kayaks, which were experimentally verified to protect against the gozo, into the newly formed gozo sea. The pirates were well equipped with harpoons, aquatic sea battle axis, robotic Jellyfish  exterminators and their slick black speedos (known to confuse Jellyfish as they perceive them to be black predatory sea snakes). The cafe com leite duo brought a bottle of cachaça and a bag o' lime, confident that the speedo pirates had it sorted. Let the Jellyfish Jihad begin....

They first launched a full frontal attack with their sea adapted Battle axes, in their rough medieval style for which they were well known. The Jellyfish dispersed.

With drooling aggression the pirates pressed on, firing their harpoons and swinging their axes and junk alike. Team Brazil sliced some limes. Despite the onslaught, the jellyfish numbers only increased. They started to huddle together into strange formations, submerged in the gozo they were increasingly sticking together. 

Was this a last desperate attempt to enjoy life before the pirates took it away from them? or were wait, WHAT IS THAT THING!?

In  power-ranger style, the Jellyfish had formed Jellygozord. The Jelly giant turned to Cafe with an evil gooey intent. The pirates charged over and Cafe, in a last heroic feat, tried to down a shot of cachaça before she went down. Though due to shaky hands (she was not afraid, she feared nothing, but she had already had a few shots) spilled her cachaça into the sea. Jellygozord instantly dissolved. A chain reaction broke out, Jelly fish turning into a clear transparent liquid. Even the gozo sea changed in color from its whitish tint into a clear blue. "Fascinating" said one of the sea pirates, as he leaned over to try a mouthful of gozo to realize it had been transformed into drinking water! 

The team rejoiced, finishing a few bottles of cachaça, spilling some over for good measure, and returning to shore only late the next day (turns out that the Pirates considered Cafe com Leite to be part of the bounty).

This adventure would then go down in the book of legends as the day when the world was saved from a shortage in drinking water, and no one had to ever hear a NGO moan about the water crisis ever again.     

Happiness and a safety ensued.....but would it last?

-- Xeno and Robert --

Por: Xeno @ 12:41



chapter 1: surveying local fauna
Trekking through the untouched wilderness, our weird-fauna-bio-stuff specialist J. Turnower was drawn to what appeared to be a animal habit unlike any in her text books. She cautiously approaches. Takes another step. Then out pops this curious thing

How unusual. Many questions begin to boggle our bio babe's brain. How did such an apparently harmless thing tunnel through the rock to make it's home? How to open a channel of communication? With such a friendly gaze, our beast scholar decides to inch closer. Just another step. Almost arms reach then


Dear god what is that! Our heroine hurdles back to safety. It all becomes clear now. The previous smiley variant of the species is the irresistible lure. This burly beast then moves in for the kill. Terrifying strategy. Further examination from a safe distance reveals that this creature has powerful feet with sharp toe-talons. "That's how it carved through the rock!" she realized. Making notes, she scurries away.
Chapter 2: Parametrizing Pomposity
The shock of encountering that bizarre beast our heroine, J. Turnower, decides to drop her career in weird-squidgy-animal-stuff and retrains in anthropology. After becoming a prominent expert in her field, which required a 2 week course on the subject, she plunged into field work once again.
Her interest lied in the phenomena of "pomposity". Could she parametrize pomposity?  These questions lead her to the manor of some notorious socialites.  They oozed an aura of arrogance. The first experiment consisted in trying to visually capture this pretentious phenomena

 After spending some time with her objects of study, she realized that these snobs also had their problems and diseases that only spread from snob to snob. For instance, this group suffered from incurable pleb-phobia. This picture captures this well. In just knowing that their images would be viewed by ordinary pleb-folk, their faces curdled in disgust. Most intriguing. As science is based on repetition, she took more photos

The evidence speaks for itself. She packed up and went home to ponder over pomposity some more.

Por: Unknown @ 09:44



Survival mode Art.

aka the angry gondolier. Waiting to scam the next tourist

Art                           Vs                      Venice

To start with Venice had me beat. Just the basics such as eating, sitting down and breathing non-stinking air for one week would be an journey (An alternative title to this post was The Rise and Fall of the Floating Stinker). I had unknowingly booked an evil Hostel with no usable kitchen and worse yet: it allowed no food or drink on the premise that was not bought from them. This Hostel was more sleazy bar really than hostel. I tried to explain to them the concept of a "guest", and silly notions such as eating being a necessity. They replied that I was very welcome as long as I was constantly buying stuff (this would be a theme throughout Venice), and I quote "this is not your house, my friend". On the little island of Guidecca where I was staying, the only way to eat out without going bankrupt was to face pasta or pizza (being that I don't eat wheat). Oh there were little supermarkets around but Venice is very clever, there was no way to perchance knives or forks or little cheap pointy things anywhere. Except... if you bought 50 plastic knives, or 50 plastic forks, or a badly made wooden crucifix (i.e. could serve as a pointy thing). I was down on my luck... I had to try and conform, though it is not my nature. I followed the herds of tourists, dished out 30 euro on a shity fish dish, got charged 5 euros to sit down at a piazza and even ate a plasticy gelato. But sure it's all worth it right? For the stupid little cramped roads and soggy canals and the gangs of gondoliers looking for their next pack of Americans. 

After one day on this wet pancake I could no longer stand for it. I bought 50 knives, 50 forks and 50 plates (I rather give my money away to the plastic industry then this pompous moist Disney Land ). I made friends with this guy
bought local parma ham and cheese. Every morning I would sit and with my shity knives and very slowly "chop" my breakfast and food for the day on the floor by the river

I went to work in abandoned coffee shops, as no other place would have me, this was my desk for one morning 
I believe that tube shaped boat is a shit transporter, it very appropriating stopped off at my hostel on the right. Here is a closer look 

   After a few hours I was even shooed off the abandon coffee shop as the guy said: "You no work here this my work, I work here not you". That was the nicest thing any coffee shop owner had said to me so far. Before I could distress I heard a faint american voice, it was Mr Moustache and he said "I am proud of you my son, don't let them beat you...  now go in search of public places...."  and so I did. I found I could work in parks
I carried a bunch of bananas and one water bottle which I would fill at water fountains (often a queue of angry locals would form behind me) 
Every morning after making my food, and usually being pointed at by tourists, I would take a water bus

 to far far away, to a more local and ugly part of Venice, where I found peace.
In the end I won, the first picture shows me in my state of victory standing proud in the most expensive hyped up piazza of Venice, piazza di san marco, carrying my banana and free water. The second pictures is a gondolier I beat in a stare down, just to rub in, so that Venice would remember me.

Por: Xeno @ 18:56



Hey I thought I would relate my first trip that I've arranged for pure pleasure and completely alone! 


Tourism to me is a strange phenomena. It has transformed Venice to what I imagine the end of days would be like, where everyone needs to see, eat and buy enough for the rest of eternity. My initial plan was to read and work outside in a beautiful location, and armed with better coffee and wine. I thought it was sound plan. I was a fool. I couldn't sit down anywhere to chill with an espresso, I actually got shooed off, and over charged for bad quality (I was cool with all this as I felt I was doing tourist trap tourism.) This morning I had to return to Venice. On a sunny summer Sunday morning, and it just so happens there is a race in the grand channel. To get to the island of Guidecca where I'm staying I need to get a water bus (cost 50 euros for 4 days of water buses), however they are mostly cancelled because of the race! With only 2 water bus lines remaining the queues are massive and it is beyond boiling hot. I have come to believe the climate is slowly transitioning to a fiery hell, so as that no one will notice when we get there. As there are no exact regulations on how many people fit on a water bus everyone just crammed on it and I find myself completely stuck in the middle of a group of giant Americans, like playing an opposite version of piggy in the middle. Luckily I have a map on my mobile of all the boat tracks and I'm using GPS. Of course the first thing the boat does is go completely off any track and leave the perimeter of my saved map. So I have no idea where the boat is and I don't know whether to break down and take comfort in the surrounding blubber or freak out and then receive a group hug. Somehow I recognise my island after ages and I get off onto a blissful paradise. Exactly like the central island of Venice, with little channels, little open market places and sprinkled with restaurants and coffee shops over looking Venice and the river. The difference is they are all empty and reasonable priced. I'm exhilarated to find a more local side of Venice. My hostel is gorgeous. It has it's own student bar and tomorrow is games night with Go. 


Por: Xeno @ 08:44



The author in a brain specialist

My university has this approach of treating everything as a Natural Sciences problem. I am not in the position of judging this milenar policy, but I cannot help but laugh at some of the consequences, such as the physicist who holds the "Chair of Sociology" and has Assimovian dreams about society, and the brain experiment that I am taking part.

Being not satisfied with the current way teachers handle the development of motor coordination among children (Kindesmotorischekoordination), the swiss have decided to improve it by applying an electrical current to one's head while performing some physical task. As I cannot tie my shoes properly, I was considered the perfect subject. I also received 15 Swiss Francs per 1 hour session, which made this the first time my brain literally made me some cash.

And there I went with a friend to the experiment, another PhD student-foreign-cheap labor-sample. I told the researcher about my previous experience with the medical sciences, when Artur and I tried to see who could donate more blood.

Both scientist and my friend looked terrified at me.

I tried to improve the story a little bit by saying that the nurses did not approve the challenge, and we carried on by competing who could donate a safe amount of blood faster. Again terror in their eyes. When I proposed that we should compete who could sustain the largest current in their head and still perform the coordination task they stopped listening to me. If they had agreed, it would have been great.

Like Helen says, do not try to replicate your crazy mind in the world. By the way, she was the only sane human being that ever understood the beauty of a blood donation competition. The takeaway message of this text is: if you insist on telling people your geekiness you will end up either terrifying them or receiving shocks in your skull.

Por: Vitor Hugo Louzada @ 18:00



It was particularly difficult to find my conference accommodation  in Lisbon. Those I questioned in town about the whereabouts of the district of my hotel, Monte de Caparica, talked about it as if it were a far away place, mentioned only in Legend.
    "Oh, Monte.... Yep...I've heard of it. But that there's on the other side of the river. Now, you don't want to be going over there. In fact, no one goes over there."

Strange I thought. My printed instructions said it was only 4 miles from the centre. How hard can it be to get there?

After further bewildered answers from the Lisboans, I decided to switch on wilderness mode, and navigate my way in the right direction. Sniffing the wind, and checking my GPS provided bearings, I headed south to the dreaded Monte. After a train - bus - metro ride, I arrived in Monte de Caparica. (I later improved on this, by taking a train- boat- metro instead. Boats are nicer then buses)

Now in Monte, I had to find the road of my hotel. I turned once again to asking the locals, but they could only afford a silent stare when I asked them directions. They were a strange people south of the river, with their characteristic red hats and green boots

I was soon to discover the reason for their silence. The road I was looking for was the name of the 20 meter front drive of my accommodation. Not even the bartender on the corner knew its name. In fact, I only made it there because after walking around for 1 hour, I spotted the damn hotel on top of a hill, recognizing it from online photos. It was hard to find because it was in the middle of nowhere. See the view from my veranda 

With no neighbors, excluding a rather anti-social toothless horse, how could anyone know the directions there? I soon found a way to improve my view

Over my tasty goat cheese and sausage meal, I set myself on deducing why did I have to take three different transports to arrive here? The problem unfolded in the coming days. To get around Lisbon, I found no other alternative but to carry around 6, almost identical, green cards.

After a long monologue with my long faced grazing neighbor, the answer came to me. Soon after the great voyages that marked Portugal's history, it dawned on the Lisboans that they could also travel by land around their city.

 So they called upon an ancient counsel to figure out this land transport stuff. Two things were determined in that meeting. First, which family would be responsible for the transport for each squared kilometer of Lisbon. The second: a vow never again to talk or meet with the other families. Thus began the public transport system, through an asynchronous anarchic effort. Each train, bus and metro system on each side of the river, belonged to a different private company with their own credit system. The only thing in common: credits were stored in identical green cards you had purchase. Once a green card had been soiled with the credits of one of these systems, it would no longer receive any other suitor.

Turned out that 6 cards were not enough. When trying to travel from a particular train station in town, none of my 6 cards worked. I asked the local public employee. He thought it was absurdly funny that I thought I could use one of my current lines of transport credit to pay for the local journey, when it was well known that this station was owned by a different company. I took to yelling at him after this. I really let him have it, letting him know that Lisbon's public transport system was a mild improvement over walking. About as efficient as paddling one of their massive sails boats over land. That I would have had more success getting around town by trying to build vehicle out of their famous round cream pastries

He subsequently wouldn't sell me any tickets, told me try one of my alternative transport suggestions. Didn't matter, I decided to go on a night walk anyway, and buy some tasty pastries.

Por: Unknown @ 18:30



Nervians, Assemble!

I often dream of the day when I will let roar this command and it will take affect.
Something like this would be acceptably awesome:

On a large empty green field...

...some hills around as well...

The words come booming out of no where.....



Victor will be stumbling and rolling down the same hill with broken chains clanging
marking his research slavery life.

Mau will come pouncing over the hill riding a German Panzer Tank, drunk and dangerous.

With a sudden high pitch eagle shriek, Barrozo will break out of ice an cocoon, and come casually walking out.

The earth, pleased with Artur's study of it's elastic properties, will suddenly embrace him in Ireland, and take him through the earth molten center (better known as Goldman Sachs headquaters) , and squeeze him out with a large gas emission

A river of torn suits and ties will come swirling into scene, to then proceed to twist into a tight cylinder then burst open, revealing a shivering naked Yanky. Yanky's taxi driver had also offered just to take him there.

In a sudden smoke explosion, Bruno will appear playing the bass like a devil, and strangely not coughing.

Will will just happen to be hanging out on the field playing a tangy blues on a silver guitar.

From a far, a thunderous cry echoing in the distance... NUuuuuunnn.....
and Sam will come flying in on a jet he made entirely of playstation 3 parts.

Robert arrives in a helicopter because he's not ridiculous.

Frota will descend from the heavens, because let's face it, he the only one of us that is pure.

Gab will arrive by surfing his own long blond hair (possible?) in a fixed Daniel-san stance.

Paulo will draw himself into the scene, but more with more muscles and spiky

Super Saiyan Dragon ball-z hair.

Rafa comes riding in on a giant crab, symbolizing his home, powered entirely by hydraulics.
Then we will chill, take the traditional nerv photos, something like

After some time, and after discussing something outrageous and metaphysical,  Nerv will once again dissipate, and each will head back to whence he came... 

Hopefully more of you will get out to visit me, e.g. 

Por: Unknown @ 08:55



Italian cities are a crisscross of ancient cobbled roads with patches of modern tar. Notoriously, Italian roads are dangerous, thus the ministry of road planning is undertaking an innovative and wide spread project to improve safety. The project seeks to identify the most dangerous stretches of road to cross, and then alert the pedestrians. They have done this by marking the road with clear white and blacks stripes, like one would find in nature, poisonous lizard and frog being the standard example. Though an ingenious attempt, many a pedestrian, in an act of defiance, tries to cross these marked danger zones. Observe


(not to be confused with the Brazilian system, where in the stripes are for cars, and indicate a “speed-up” zone. Also not to be confused with the british black-white stripes, which indicates a “must park before and count to 100s” zone)

Por: Unknown @ 15:18



Arriving hungry at night in Florence, my hostess points me to a diner of reasonably priced and good pizza. She says shes eats there (at least that's what I think she said). The place was everything you would not want a italian restaurant to look like. Designed by a famous chemical plant arquetect, even the walls where screaming “we will feed you then mechanically remove you”. 

Furnished entirely by a second hand office depot that went bust. Yes, though I do know a certain unnamed person that would relish in the low-brow-ness of it all, it is hard to imagine a tourist coming to beautiful Florence, to then eat in a place like this. But I was hungry, and a lot of local bus drives where eating here (a good sign?). Past the client feeding area, I encountered the food disposal area. Various plates of food enclosed in glass cages that would not open (trust me I tried). I then surveyed the surroundings for assistance and met the gaze of the cashier. We then commenced a staring competition. After what she deemed was a satisfactory performance on my part in the stare-off, she called out for the serving lady. 

Out came a substantial Italian women with a heavy brow, and she was using it to frown at me. This would have made a less hungry man crumble. I gave her my rehearsed line
--“How does the system work”
She then said a lot of things, including
--”If you like what you see, you eat”
and simultaneously shoved a pizza my way. I understood the gesture; she wanted me to take the pizza. But my inquisitive mind was relentless, and I thought, why this one? what over flavors are there? can I have just a slice to try? maybe half a pizza? We engaged in a futile attempt of communication. I tried to slur the words “mezzo”(half), “options” and “system” in to a sentence. She would then answer using more then three words. The frustration took it's toll on the Italian kitchen warlord; she was not used to dealing with foreigners. She then said something on the lines of
--”Take the whole pizza and I'll charge you for half”
I realized that resistance was futile, and I took the pizza. Thin slices of courgettes, Gorgonzola and with little nibbles of spicy sausage. One of the best pizzas I've had in a long time. It cost 3 euros.

Por: Unknown @ 20:02



O general e o cozinheiro

"Será uma morte lenta", assegurou o general, "faz parte do contrato", enquanto o cozinheiro deslisava sua faca pelo pescoço de Felipe, linhas verticais em torno de seu pomo. O suficiente para um fino traco vermelho sangue brotar.
"Não, não, por favor, você não entende, eu num posso morrer.. tenho muita coisa pra vê ainda". O general ouvia o garoto suplicar do canto da sala, longe o suficiente para não manchar sua farda, mas perto o suficiente para garantir que o contrato seria cumprido. Os termos eram claros, a morte viria, lentamente, das mãos de ambos.
"Olha o que eu fiz pra vocês? Bah, eu ando aqui em Cuzco faz um tempo já, fiz umas merdas, eu to sabendo, mas quem eh que não faz?". A faca continuava seu caminho pelo peito. Mamilos, barriga, umbigo, tudo já jorrava sangue. Mas o cozinheiro sabia que essa era só a parte "lenta" do contrato, não a morte.

"Porra, eh dinheiro que vocês querem? Não tem um puto na minha bolsa, mas deve ter alguma coca." "Folha de coca?", o general respondeu prontamente, e a faca do cozinheiro interrompeu sua jornada a dois dedos do umbigo de Felipe. "Não velho, porra, o pó, não deve ter muito, mas eh tudo de vocês". Os olhos do general voltaram para o mesmo vazio de antes, e o cozinheiro terminou seu trajeto. O garoto já era vermelho de cima a baixo, mas ainda não tinha gritado. Dor não estava no contrato. Para o próximo passo, o cozinheiro precisaria de outra faca. "Não, espera, eu entendi, eu sumo daqui, não, a boca, aaaaahrg". Felipe resistia com toda a forca que restava, mas cortar a língua de alguem para o cozinheiro era tao natural quanto fatiar cebolas.

"Preste atenção, Felipe. Você vai morrer. E lentamente. Dor não está no contrato, mas a sua língua era necessária". Mais um detalhe contratual do que puro sadismo, a língua dos jurados de morte tinha que ser removida para evitar argumentacão. Um pouco de dor também torna a próxima parte mais aceitável, da algo para o jurado pensar enquanto a morte não chega. "Nosso contrato foi firmado pela sua irmã, onze meses atrás, ainda no Brasil. Ela quer que você morra, e lentamente". O sangue jorrava pela boca do garoto, mas o cozinheiro providenciara que a cadeira estivesse levemente inclinada para frente, evitando um eventual sufocamento, e consequente quebra contratual.

A expressão nos olhos da pessoa que acabou de descobrir quem ordenou sua morte varia muito. Muitas riem, algumas choram descontroladamente, outras juram vingança - mesmo com a língua cortada. Na classificacao feita pelo general, Felipe decidira pelo descontentamento e profunda tristeza. Nos ultimos três meses que acompanhou Felipe, o garoto ligava frequentemente para Porto Alegre, para o mesmo numero que, meses antes, havia firmado seu contrato. De certo que reconhecer o nome de seu assassino deve causar sofrimento, mas o general gostava de deixar essas divagacoes filosóficas para o cozinheiro.

Já pálido, o garoto nao resistia mais. O chão já continha grande parte do seu sangue. Mas o cozinheiro sabia que aquela deveria ser uma morte lenta e, tal como as clássicas tentativas de suicido por corte dos pulsos, uma pessoa raramente morre por hemorragia se o corte não atinge uma artéria. E, é claro, a sobrevivencia de Felipe não era opcao, nem mesmo uma possibilidade. Sua morte era um fato, e o cozinheiro havia garantido isso com a quantidade e profundidade exata de cortes pelo seu corpo. Uma lenta, mas relativamente indolor, morte estava assegurada por hemorragia.

O general contudo ainda não havia feito sua parte. Retirou um pacote de pilulas brancas do bolso e caminhou lentamente em direcao a Felipe. Nao para deixar a cena mais tensa, mas para evitar que gotas de sangue respingassem em suas calcas. "Engula essas garoto, vai te ajudar", disse o general enquanto gentilmente forcava as aspirinas pela garganta de Felipe. A ausência de língua torna o processo de engolimento mais complicado, mas o sangue ajudou as aspirinas a descerem.

Sentados, o general e o cozinheiro permaneceram pelos próximos setenta e cinco minutos em silencio, observando o garoto, em hemorragia intensa, sangrar até a morte. A gravacao só então foi interrompida. Embora considerada uma quebra de privacidade pelo general, gravar a morte de um jurado havia sido uma forma muito mais limpa de provar o comprimento do contrato do que como nos velhos temos, quando uma cabeça na caixa era pratica comum do mercado. Morte às 12:07, Cuzco, Peru.

Por: Vitor Hugo Louzada @ 21:24



Inside out lonely death metal reversion

I have forgotten what it's like to be alone, after living so long with friends.
I realize, that having the ones I hold dear to me around, in part defined me,
 and without them, I'm reverting to some sort of previous primordial state.
In the silence I'm now forced to look inside myself.... 
as I stare inside out, an ever so quite death metal track starts to phase in.
The song is trying to tell me something about my new life...

Where are you? I need to flee... 
into another dimension 
R: The symbolic leaving of my friends, fleeing into my new and sole escapism,
 which is obviously math tainted with death metal: that other dimension.

"after all the pain you caused me...streaks of blood still run down the wall."
R: The aftermaths of a diet based on only curry.

"Repulsive colors infest my brain, this will surly drive me insane, in a world so cruel and dark,
 I really need a change of heart."
R: The flashing imagery of Scots swirling in their colorful kilts as they dance a Ceilidh in this sunless land,
 and how I must replace my heart with a chunk of hard Scottish rock to endure.

The rain has fallen so that my fire is put out 
The fire that once burned so mighty 
is extinguished to its ground 

R: What cold Scottish rain is doing fiery enthusiasm

Por: Unknown @ 20:05



Goldman Sachs and PR problems

Goldman is going through a bit of a bad patch with humanity. Though the underworld
servants have always been the majority of their clients, humanity comprised a fair share of their business. When questioned about such PR problems their marketing director, Mr Yoursoul Wewantith , answered defensively:
"We've had no such problems, in fact we haven't had a single Puerto Rican on the pay role since last month. We fired their Latin asses!"

Given the negative acceptance by the public of the directors Statement, the vice president of the financial arm made a come back statement in an attempt calm public furor
"We are willing to exchange the future ransom of all human infants for public acceptance."

Just last month, former Goldman Sachs employee in Japan made a formal protest against the harsh manner in which the company "let him go". He said, in a firm but slightly irritated tone, that he was so upset by the companies attitude that he even tried to give them the finger,
though Goldman Sachs human resource zombies had slashed his wrists, making such a movement impossible.

Por: Unknown @ 21:21



"Just divide the vector by that matrix there, durrr"
--anonymous engineer

The Amazingly Witty Eloquent Solitary Opinionated Mathematics spEcialist: "It appears that every unit of growth from datum A implies in a logarithmic growth of datum B"
Engineer: "Just fit a line"
The AWESOME: "What? I'm telling you, we know it's functional form, it's just A = log(B)"
Engineer: "Just fit a line, durrr"

Are you tired of hearing this and other drunken slurs from sober engineers? Have they imposed shortcuts when all was need is a simplex? Did they hire a engineer to do a mathematicians job?

Step 1: Lock up the engineer. When questioned, say he drank himself into a stupor, no one will question this.
Step 2: Do his job forever, and avoid mentioning that he ever existed.

Por: Unknown @ 23:24


Copyright Deborah Happ 2007