Build Your Own Stab-o-mizer TM

Have you ever had the misfortune to phone one of those call centres in India and waste several minutes of your life talking to some inarticulate moron on the other end of the line?

Have you ever had the misfortune to work in one of those call centres in India and waste several minutes of your life talking to some inarticulate moron on the other end of the line?

Have you ever felt like stabbing someone, if only you were face to face with the idiotic fucktard instead of several thousand miles away?

Well, now you can stab someone in the face over the internet, thanks to the patented Stab-o-mizer ^TM!

Previously only available to the security services, the Stab-o-mizer ^TM has now been optimized for home use. Cheap, 100% reliable and easily assembled from off-the-shelf components, this handy little device can be operated with no technical knowledge whatsoever!

All you need is the IP or email address of your intended victim, a steady hand and a cast-iron alibi. On second thoughts, scratch the alibi, you won't need it since you'll be thousands of miles away!

You will need:

• USB cable


• Joystick or PS2 control pad


• Webcam


• Servo motor from a Segway


• Hypodermic needle


• Live rabies virus (optional)


• Large roll of gaffer tape


• Soldering iron

Then follow the simple step-by-step instructions in this video tutorial.



Good luck!

<sup>Disclaimer: This tutorial is provided for information purposes only. No claim is made as to the accuracy or authenticity of the content of the tutorial. The author does not accept any liability to any person for the information or advice (or the use of such information or advice) which is provided in this tutorial or incorporated into it by reference. The information in the Stab-o-mizer tutorial is provided on the basis that all persons accessing the tutorial undertake responsibility for assessing the relevance and accuracy of its content.

No kittens were harmed in the making of this tutorial.</sup>

I Love Whales...

...but I couldn't eat a whole one.

A Norwegian pro-whaling group, the High North Alliance, have conducted a scientific study proving that in terms of CO₂ emissions, the "best thing you can do for the planet is to eat whale meat."

Apparently the carbon footprint per kilo of whalemeat is only 1.9 kilo of greenhouse gases against 15.8 for beef, 6.4 for pork and 4.6 for chicken.

Before I sharpen my trusty harpoon, I want to know: what's the carbon footprint of a Norwegian? Fresh, not frozen.

Is It A Monster?

Son-In-Law takes his sport seriously. I'm not talking about that crap on telly, I mean the Real Thing: Participation; Life Or Death; Them Or Me. [That's Enough Capitalisation. Ed.]

He has it all planned out like a full-scale military operation. Firstly he'll check out the tide tables, to find the most suitable time to ship out; then the weather forecasts, to see if his quarry will likely be easy or hard to spot. He'll even make sure every member of the party has an up-to-date hunting licence. On the night before the big event, he'll pack up the essentials into the 4x4 ready for an early start.

Come the big day, he'll be up before dawn, getting the rest of the family prepared, for this is more than a one-man operation. They all pile aboard and hurtle off along the long, dusty highway, passing jacaranda trees bursting with purple [Get on with it. Ed].

He grabs a string bag in one hand, a trusty screwdriver in the other and stomps off down the beach, arriving at the rocky outcrop just as the tide reaches its lowest ebb. Or is it flow? [No. Ebb.]

This far out, the critters have had time to mature and grow into monsters three, sometimes four inches across. Expertly, he reaches far down to the underside of a rock, feels around until his fingers find his prey, then he ducks under the water with the screwdriver, struggles valiantly with one of these leviathans for two, three, maybe five seconds and finally surfaces with, well, what looks like a bit of rock, defiantly thrust aloft. Into the bag it goes and he's off looking for the next one already.
He'll only stop when either the rising tide makes it too hard to stay upright, or he's reached his quota. Well, I say his quota, but that's where the rest of the family come in. 24 oysters per person per day. They just have to physically present, with licences. Sometimes we get to join in. Sometimes we just buy the licences and watch.

Then it's off with the day's catch a l'hotel, where chef washes and opens the oysters and serves them up with lemons and piri-piri sauce. Anything to disguise the taste of snot, really.
So there we are, eating the little fuckers with various shades of enthusiasm, when Mrs Farty exclaims, "This one's not been cleaned properly, there's a bit of grit or something in it!"
But lo and behold! On closer inspection, the "or something" turns out to be a real, honest-to-goodness pearl. Ain't it a beauty?

Er, you might want to click to enlarge. Several times.