lying for a living

“French shooting show injures 17.”

A military show in south-eastern France has left 17 people wounded, after real bullets were used instead of blanks.

… The incident occurred during a public demonstration of hostage-freeing techniques at a barracks in Aude.

N.b. for my travel plans: Don’t get taken hostage in France.

County Councils in Britain, control freaks who feel free about doling out taxpayers’ money desperately concerned about citizens’ health, have come up with a new plan to cut heart disease: reducing the number of holes in salt shakers at fish-and-chip shops.

Research has suggested that slashing the holes from the traditional 17 to five could cut the amount people sprinkle on their food by more than half.

And so at least six councils have ordered five-hole shakers – at taxpayers’ expense – and begun giving them away to chip shops and takeaways in their areas.

Gateshead Council officers “obtained samples of fish and chips, measured salt content and ‘carried out experiments to determine how the problem of excessive salt being dispensed could be overcome by design’.” They then came up with the five-hole salt shakers, which they think will cut salt intake “yet give a ‘visually acceptable sprinkling’ that would satisfy the customer.” They say, “We believe the cost to be a small price to pay for potentially saving lives.”

Thank you, Mommy.

Meanwhile, customers are still shaking — and shaking — salt from the unholey shakers onto greasy, battered, deep-fried fish and chips.

I’m sitting in the Dayton airport waiting for my flight to Cincinnati, thence to Pittsburgh. So I’m people watching, I mean, wasting time browsing the Internet, doing serious online research while I wait. And for you who are thinking about becoming editors, just for you, I’ve found an article about what it’s like to edit a major, world famous science journal.

Pausing only to slip on my diamante kitten heels, don my grass skirt and green lurex boob tube, grab my rocket-propelled grenade launcher, a few rounds of fuel-air explosive and a nice clean hanky to surrender with, I leave, walking the half-mile or so to my local railway station, Roughton Road, on the outskirts of Cromer.

There are photos, with many hilarious captions.

(Via Petrona.)

I’ve just arrived in Manhattan, and what do I discover? The Naked Cowboy, whom I encountered in Times Square last spring, is in the news. He’s suing the Mars Corporation for trademark infringement:

“NEW YORK (Reuters) - The $6 million lawsuit filed by the New York City street performer known as The Naked Cowboy against M&Ms candy maker Mars Inc can go forward on grounds of trademark infringement, a judge ruled on Monday.

“Robert Burck — for 10 years a fixture in Times Square, who strums a white guitar while dressed only in white cowboy boots and hat and skimpy white underwear — filed the suit in February over video billboards depicting a blue M&M dressed in his signature outfit.”

If I were him, I’d object to a round little candy imitating me, too.

And yes, he has the whitiest, tightiest tighty-whities ever. The man obviously knows how to do laundry.

“Woman sues Victoria’s Secret claiming thong injury.“

Macrida Patterson, a 52-year-old Los Angeles traffic officer, told NBC’s “Today” show that she suffered cuts to her cornea from the small piece of metal that had been used to secure a rhinestone heart onto the blue thong.

How many times to we need to say it? Whether you’re a convenience store robber or a meter maid, thongs and faces do not mix.

And after talking on a cell phone for years, I wonder what my brain now looks like.

(Thanks to Gargoyle for the link.)

UPDATE: Gargoyle has now pointed out that this video isn’t for real — it’s a joke. And man, I have been traveling waaay too much if I forgot to check Snopes.com before posting something so bizarre.

“Jilted South Korean loses bid to reclaim costs of dating.”

They borrowed it from women who left theirs at home before going to the races.

Britain’s poshest horse racing event of the year, Royal Ascot, requires men to wear morning dress and women to wear dresses and hats. But “after witnessing one too many sartorial disasters,” Ascot has had to issue a blunt new dress code explaining what that means.

The new Royal Ascot code warns ladies against the perils of fake tans, flashy jewellery, faulty footwear - and, most importantly, points out the hazards of lacking in the lingerie department.

On this point, it doesn’t mince words, saying bluntly: ‘Knickers: A definite yes - but not on show, please, ladies!’

While it may seem rather obvious to suggest the wearing of undergarments for such a prestigious event - the Queen and other senior members of the Royal Family attend each day - the organisers privately admit that nowadays they can take nothing for granted.

The thoroughbreds, of course, always look impeccable.

“The smallest possible building blocks of mundanity”: boredons.

(From The Onion.)

I’m heading to Houston in five minutes. Talk amongst yourselves. And come up with captions for this photo. If you want close-ups of all the hairhats — designed to look like goats, dogs, rabbits and other creepy beasts atop the models’ heads — here they are in all their horror.

I’ll start: “Who will Damien choose to take to the demon prom?!?”

(Thanks to Gargoyle for the link.)

Inventor of Pringles chip can to be buried in one.

It’s Friday, and time for some fun, and I’m going to shamelessly appropriate Anna Pickard’s topic from the Guardian’s arts blog: What are your favorite spoken narrative titles from TV shows?

And what exactly are spoken narrative titles?

Oh, well, you’ll see. They seem to have been mainly used by producers who didn’t trust their audiences to remember the convoluted set up. And then, later on, the perhaps not-so-convoluted set up. Whatever. LIST!

She chooses, among other narrations, Quantum Leap, The A Team, The Six Million Dollar Man, and The Beverly Hillbillies. Here are some of my favorites:

Star Trek. Of course it’s number one. What else could be? “Space: the final frontier…” Bonus: This choice proves that I am not a grammar pedant, because I thoroughly approve of the split infinitive, “To boldly go where no man” — or, depending on the series, no one — “has gone before.” Glue on the Spock ears, cinch Kirk into his captain’s jersey, and bring on the miniskirts and go-go boots!

The Twilight Zone. Picture this: Rod Serling. You can fill in the rest — the tight, mannered, deeply eerie voice, the tics, the creepy harp music. And picture this: a friend of mine was moving into her dorm room freshman year and turned around to see Rod Serling standing in the doorway. His daughter was to be her roommate. She nearly jumped out the window and ran away. It was Rod Serling. Wouldn’t you have the same reaction?

The Outer Limits. Not the new Showtime version, but the great, original, black-and-white series. “Do not adjust your television set… we control the vertical. We control the horizontal… we take you from the inner mind to… The outer limits.” I used to watch it after school, and this show seriously freaked me out. I miss it.

Quincy. Not a pure voiceover, but Jack Klugman explaining to new police recruits what they were about to see in the autopsy suite. Cue saws, bone spreaders, fainting, vomiting… it was the lighthearted precursor to CSI. Well, as lighthearted as medical examiner shows get.

24. Also not really an explanatory voiceover but a simple statement of what hour we’re in. “The following takes place between four a.m. and five a.m.” Just ten words, but they’re growled at me by the smoky voice of Kiefer Sutherland. By the time he finishes the sentence I am whimpering on the floor.

And: Best opening that told the story and required no voiceover: Ironside. The setup — Cop/shooting/wheelchair/freakin’ sixties in San Francisco!! — is all told with images. Plus it has a sharp, cool Quincy Jones score. The show itself is so Hip, man — can you dig it? that it’s like an anthropological documentary about the times. Either that, or it’s just unbelievably corny.

Yes, I love old TV.