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REMINDER: THAW THEM DOGS
Information that one day may prove vital:
Frozen dogs sometimes explode when cremated.
Then again, this could be another sinister Bushite myth. Like fire melting steel.
(Via Wally)
Oh, for cryin’ out loud! Petroleum Accelerant Cremation Oil is supposed to be used at the rate of one drop per pound of room temperature loved one ; you know: “a lttle dab’ll do ya.” Sounds like some mortician trainee - fresh out of correspondence school, no doubt - dosed poor Rover with a whole one-gallon jug. Well, maybe they can just tell customers that that wall over there is an original mural by Jackson Pollock.
Message to purchasers of PACO products: Read the label.
BBQ season is filled with such perils.
Remember to turn them once and never prick them.
Posted by Infidel Tiger on 2008 01 04 at 08:42 PM • permalinkAn earlier version of the NYT reports on the birth of Jesus.
Read the label? How are we supposed to do that when all the text is in freakin’ Aramaic? Listen, I can understand that highly superstitious ancient cultures represent a significant growth opportunity for your company, but just in case you haven’t noticed, the shekel-to-dollar exchange rate has been in the dump lately, and your shipping costs must be absolutely HORRENDOUS.
#7 Paco—Doubtless that edition would have a 10 page pullout entitled:
“Parthian Surge Failing, Senate Calls for Severus’ Ouster”
subtitled:
“Tiberius vacations at Ranch Capri—Sejanus’ Confirms All Foreign Papyri will be Read”
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 04 at 09:20 PM • permalinkP.E.T.A Headquarters must be now considered a modern day Chernobyl.
Posted by Hank Reardon on 2008 01 04 at 09:52 PM • permalinkHard to fight a war when you have dumbasses in important decision-making roles.
Apropos of Tim’s recent trip to Israel and “Guns ‘n Moses”:
Q: What was Rachel Corrie’s favourite band?
A: Guns ‘n dozers.
Posted by mr creosote on 2008 01 04 at 11:12 PM • permalinkPetroleum Accelerant Cremation Oil
=
Spot remover
Posted by Tai Chi Wawa on 2008 01 04 at 11:28 PM • permalinkI’m sure we could solve the exploding dog problem if we could just get canines to fart like kangaroos.
Posted by Evil Pundit on 2008 01 04 at 11:39 PM • permalinkSome what on topic….Well, dogs anyway. Unexploded of course.
Attended the Grand American coon dog trial today. I bought my son a puppy (English coon hound, or red tick). He’s quit taken with him as only a seven yr. old can be. There were quite a few people from Paco’s neck of the woods in attendance. If his stories of growing up in Moonshine North Carolina are to be believed. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Paco has the tobacco concession for the Orangeburg county fairgrounds. Ya’ll urbanite’s wouldn’t believe the quantity and variety of tobacco products consumed in a venue like that. It was so refreshing to me (a cigarette smoker) not to encounter a single No Smoking, Dipping, or Chewing sign in the whole place. The place was filled with rough men, the occasional pretty girl, and hundreds of hounds. I had almost as much fun as my son. What a great day.#18 Tai Chi WaWa—humor…Ha! and again, Ha!
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 04 at 11:52 PM • permalink#18: Well done!
#20 Greene: Sounds like heaven, to me! Coon hounds are wonderful dogs; partial to the walker hound, myself.
You may well have walked among some of the Paco clan. Have you still got your wallet? Yes? Well, maybe they was someplace else, today. Maybe over at the tractor pull or the turkey shoot.
Off topic, but just hoping all the Blairites on the West Coast of the U.S. are OK. They are currently getting pounded by a hellacious storm.
Also hope The Real JeffS is OK - I heard from family in his area (SE Washington State) and they had a freak windstorm come through the valley earlier today with gusts close to 80mph. Over 60% in the area are without power.
Exploding dogs, hail storms of iguanas . . . It’s the end of the world!
#24 Neenie, thanks for the heads-up. Just now got off the phone from the family up N. California Coast (‘bout 70 curving miles north of the Russian River—place called “Sea Ranch”)
My brother’s got the generator running, Mom’s pulled a pork roast and turned into enchiladas verdes (Gawd I miss her cooking), and three Doug Fir logs the size of railroad ties roaring in the “walk-in” fireplace.
80 mph winds sending waves over these cliff tops.
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 05 at 01:15 AM • permalink#18 #31 keep that crazy paco feller right away from me. I’s already runned all th’ way from No’th Carolina to Woop Woop Western Australia to git away from him and his patented spot_remover. (I actually came here as an asylum seeker, didn’t you know?)
“spot” as verb or noun? Name of first dog, The Indomitable Spot The Dog, best rabbit hound in the world. Or North Carolina. Which is mostly the same.
Posted by spot_the_dog on 2008 01 05 at 01:39 AM • permalink#40, off-topic but in relation to funny juxtaposition of signs… coming in from the North, on the way to the Radiation Oncology Unit in Freo you go right past a big sign proudly proclaiming Fremantle to be a “Nuclear Free Zone”...
Posted by spot_the_dog on 2008 01 05 at 02:06 AM • permalink#37 Zounds! Betrayed by the absence of the normally ubiquitous gender-neutral impersonal pronoun “it”.
Stay your condolences; though much appreciated, my Mother would more likely be transmogrofied into her favourite son’s favourite dish: chiken paprikash and dumplings—Viennese style.
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 05 at 02:54 AM • permalink#40—Speaking of Mothers and Taxidermy—‘twas she who took my sister’s beloved rabbits (they died, almost simultaneously, from old age) to the Taxidermist.
When asked “Would you like them mounted?” by the eminent professional behind the counter, she replied, “Oh no! I think holding hands will do…”
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 05 at 03:00 AM • permalinkOT: Who would like to buy me a late Christmas present or early birthday present? Here is your opportunity! Don’t waste it!
#49 Such is the nature of this medium, my explosive friend.
From this threshing floor the flail raises all to the vagaries of a fickle wind: kernels new, ripe and toothsome—as well as the driest chaff and last season’s dessicated, parchèd pips, wrinkled and unpalatable.
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 05 at 03:22 AM • permalink#68, in keeping with the Dead Dog theme here… our grade school French teacher taught us the accent markers with the line: a cute puppy walked up a hill, and fell to his grave. Still remember it, but.
Posted by spot_the_dog on 2008 01 05 at 04:11 AM • permalink#61 for accents and stuff like that look up an ASCII keyboard chart ( è is numlock-alt-138 and é is numlock-alt-130, for instance)
Posted by spot_the_dog on 2008 01 05 at 04:23 AM • permalink#71 or you could do it the hard way: “&“egrave”;”
(the ampersand and semi-colon as quoted to prevent translation into an actual accent grave)
I remember the keyborad shortcuts now…thanks, spot.
This is a handy reference.
(pity the technology attracted greater comment than the prose…)
Posted by MentalFloss on 2008 01 05 at 04:36 AM • permalink(pity the technology attracted greater comment than the prose…)
We’re all used to being overwhelmed with awe by your prose, MF. The techo-thingies though, that’s a new one! :-)
Posted by spot_the_dog on 2008 01 05 at 05:15 AM • permalinkGiven that the exploding dog was at the Darwin pet crematorium and therefore this is not absolutely and entirely off topic I just want to say that “destructive winds” are very interesting. The roof thrummed with each gust. We’ve been here a long time but I’ve never heard the roof thrumming before. I was very glad of the massive amount of hardware required in these parts to hold the iron on and the roofing trusses together.
The power went out at about 3am which was OK because it was it was sleep time and cyclonic conditions keep the temperature down. It was not so OK when we got up a few hours later and wanted to make coffee, find out what was going on in the world and get on with our usual daytime stuff.
By 10am melt water was pooling on the floor beneath our freezer. Thankfully the power came back on again by about 11am and, with only one hiccough, has stayed on ever since. All in all, I’ve decided that I would very much like never to have to go through anything much worse than what we’ve just been through. That’s if I could have my druthers.
Me Father was Dublin born and bred and passed away too early during the pilot’s strike in ‘89.
So the brothers and I and a few offspring had to drive very quickly from Brisbane to Townsville for the funeral.
Coming from the south you drive past the crematorium on the left some 15 klms before you reach Townsville and we noticed something ‘different’ about it as we sped by.
We lurched into the family home, collected Mum and returned to the crematorium for the ritual.
On the way Mum informed us that the service for Dad would be held in the gardens and not in the chapel because the previous week the crematorium had burnt down. Shrieks of ‘what’s going to happen to Dad?’ were allayed by the ‘burner’s still working’.
It seems that cheerleaders and supporters at an Indian send off the previous week kept throwing garlands of flowers etc over the coffin as it disappeared from view and these then caught fire and brought the whole house down.
The only thing missing was Dad’s caustic observations at the irony of his send off.
But we could imagine it all enough.
#77
Before his death in 2001 my father and I had a discussion about his cremation. He had a ‘mate’ at the crematorium who had shown him around and told him what happens there. Dad knew he didn’t have long. He’d been given about three weeks. (He lasted 4.)I asked Dad about having organised the fire brigades of several suburbs to be at the ready for his cremation. I told him he’d burn with a bright, blue flame (a bit like metho), and once they got him started they’d never put him out. We had a huge laugh about that. He was a funny bugger.
Mum thought I was silly. Dad dried out four weeks before he died.
Setting fire to the Townsville crematorium reminded me of that discussion with Dad. It’s a miracle Rookwood didn’t go up. And the chapel wasn’t big enough for the people who came to pay their respects. Over 100.
Cremation ... and the disposal of the ashes lead to some interesting situations.
I’m reminded of the guy who jumped into the Wrigley Field outfield during a game and scattered his father’s ashes on the playing field. It seems the father, poor sap, was a lifelong Cubs fan. The guy was arrested; then the groundskeepers raked the ashes into the warning track and the game went on. For all I know, he’s still out there.
Me, I want my ashes mixed into my garden’s compost pile. The garden’s fed me for so long, only seems fair that I feed it.
Posted by Urbs in Horto on 2008 01 05 at 12:15 PM • permalinkFurther to #74
à á â ã ä æ
ç ć č
è é ê ë ę
ò ó ô ö ø œ
ù ú û ü
Þ þ ß ſ Ð ðvia the Character Palette (copy and paste should work)
Cheers
Posted by J.M. Heinrichs on 2008 01 05 at 11:43 PM • permalink
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Similarly important advice for poultry:
“Use a thawed chicken.”