Death of the Base Station

You've waited... you've asked... you've requested.... you've suggested... you've pleaded... you've begged... you've offered amazing favours... so here it is.

My landlady is an artist and she has a lovely bottle-shaped kiln that she keeps in the depths of our huge and gorgeous garden. We usually like to pack it out with wood and issue loud oohs and ahhhs as impressive jet effects emerge out of the top.

You can figure out the rest but... well, blogs aren't designed for brevity. Anyway she put the kiln away as part of the prep for her daughter's wedding which was cleverly scheduled for the week before my birthday party (thanks for the fairy lights and porno pond, Carol!). Naturally, we were invited to the wedding and summarily carried the kiln back to its rightful position during proceedings - and recommenced burning shit as usual. The wedding guests were impressed. I'm still in touch with one of the cuter ones.

The kiln again played its prominent role during my birthday party, providing heat and jet-engine effects for the assembled faithful, and we incinerated an impressive amount of stuff. And then the idea struck.... what a great send-off for the shitface base station from hell! Apparently there is video somewhere of the insertion but those guys are headed back to vermont so who knows whether the footage will survive.

For now, here is detailed photographic evidence of the aftermath. Note that the fuckface bastard didn't succumb entirely, further proving that it is in fact Satan's own networking device.

when diplomacy fails

the gate to to the area under our back deck basically has one mission in life - to trap innocent people, who are doing the Right Thing by disposing of garbage and recycling correctly, into being ruthlessly tortured by wheelie bins and the other mutated denizens of this toxic wasteland.

the gate has a two-pronged attack - first, it automatically closes at a frightening rate, with enough satanic force behind it that it won't stay open even when wedged by a black hole. second, it makes an awful dread howl as it closes, which is the sign to Make a Break for It Fast. i have so far resisted lubing its hinges (with battery acid) because otherwise its attack would be silent and therefore infinitely more effective.

the picture shows the aftermath of one traumatic occasion where it almost caught me. after a brief struggle i lashed out and caught its midriff - it opened just enough to let me squeeze through, and although the injury clearly meant nothing to it, i did imagine that just for a second it looked a little hurt and chastised.