Fastrousers takes it to the terrorists

I'm not generally a big fan of those Homeland Security people. Apart from anything else, I have to pay $100 for the dubious privilege of being on their nosey little database, and even have to ask permission to return to the Warm Bosom of my Motherland. However, I've decided to conduct my very own War on Terror tonight.

Any delinquant little bastard that comes to my door in disguise using unspecified threats in a blithe attempt to menace sweets from me is going straight to a Specially Designated Processing Center (sic). (Actually, it's the shed in the garden that we use as a laundry room). No trial, no right of appeal and I'm certainly not tolerating a load of runny-nosed liberals with Amnesty International placards cluttering up the driveway. That's what Venice Beach is for, after all.

But I will give the 'detainees' some soup or something once a day (more or less), and they get to face Mecca three times a day, so nobody could accuse me of being an unreasonable man - nobody who doesn't hate America, that is.

I had planned to be out and about myself tonight, but I was advised against it. Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated my plan of donning a fake beard and turban, and threatening to drive into people's houses unless they supplied me with some Halal Beef Jerky and an autonomous Islamic state in Malibu. One rule for the kids, another rule for Fastrousers - no wonder this country's going to the dogs.

Raw fish and rice

I would just like to say that in my opinion, sushi is an absolutely wonderful cuisine. Wonderful, that is, if you're an anorexsic with a massive income who's only reason for eating is to to go restaurants with a decor that's a cross between Ikea and a Doctor Who set. For anyone with more sense that money, and an appetite to boot, then forget it.

At $100 bucks a head (including sake), you'd think that they would at least cook the food. They don't even bother to lay the table properly - since when has a couple of wooden sticks counted as cutlery?

Thank christ someone else was paying.

To err is human, to really cock up you need a computer

The entire department is obsessed with lesbians today, even more so than usual. One of my colleagues, an overtly bisexual female, yesterday used her personal laptop to run a class. She was showing the class some website or other, but with one slip of the mouse she managed to display a bookmarked website entitled Lesbian Erotica, indicating more about her lifestyle than she'd planned.

Ironically, the lecture was on professional presentation skills.

Sesame Street character arrested in LA crack-house bust!

A harmless fluffy goon, and a muppet

Not really. All that's happened is that some bloke is complaining about being arrested for hastling tourists on Hollywood Boulevard whilst dressed as Sesame Street's Elmo. Frankly, I approve of the arrest and make a call for the heaviest possible penalties to be applied to this idiot. Anyone who's idea of gameful employment is dressing up in pink fur and charging extortionate prices to have his photo taken clearly needs to be taken from society. Admittedly, that does sound a bit like Elton John, but I can't lay into him for fear of being reported to the chancellor for homophobia by the loony liberal elements in this place. That's the trouble with being in a social sciences department - how I yearn to be back in the unrestrained misogyny of a science faculty.

On a slightly different note, rest in peace, Rosa Parks. Not many of us will be able to honestly say that we left the world a better place than when we came into it. Certainly not the sort of vacuous twat who makes a living dressed up as a fucking muppet.

I'm horny for my dentist

I well remember the oral healthcare of my youth. Mr Stanmore, Barnstaple's full-time dentist and part-time sheep shearer, all rancid breath and beady eyes, would place one foot squarely against my scrawny pre-pubescent chest in preparation for a particularly stubborn extraction. Any indication of pain or discomfort would ellicit the casual response "it's mind over matter, young Fastrousers - I don't mind and you don't matter". How different the experience here in California is, where the only real pain is in the wallet. Although at least I never had to shuffle out of Mr Stanmore's surgery trying to hide an embarassing erection.

I should explain. By sheer good fortune, I happen to have registered with an extremely attractive dentist, who also has an extremely attractive assistant. The sort of dental surgery Hugh Heffner would opt for. Regular check-ups have become a joyful experience, as I lie back and have the undivided and flirtatious attention of two gorgeous young women. I know that the flirting is just part of the chair-side manner, a manipulative attemot to lessen the blow of the bill, but allow a man to dream. Never has the phrase 'now, spit' sounded so erotic.

I had three fillings this morning, and since there was a young intern in the surgery I had three young attendees instead of two. Tragically, the effect of the aneasthetic was to paralyse one side of my face more effectively than Sylvester Stallone's. The best conversational gambit I could manage was a highly dribbly grunt, but many an ex-girlfriend would probably consider that an improvement.

As the dentist leant over my prone form, allowing me complete scope to experience those deep brown eyes and that feminine scent, I couldn't help but notice that her left breast was pressed firmly against my cheek. Being a gentlemen, I attempted to stare neutrally at the ceiling, but it was no good. Oral discomfort battled against erotic stimulus, but after twenty minutes of this I'm afraid to say that the titty-pressing won, resulting in the usual male physiological response. Fortunately, my temporary entourage was busily engaged with dental composite, and so they didn't notice. I think this is the only time in life when I can genuinely say that I was grateful that a young woman was more interested in my mouth than my crotch. Three hours later, my gelid mouth is in need of a hot coffee, and my wretched soul is in need of a cold shower.

I've booked in for another appointment next week.

Oh Christ, I forgot my Mother's birthday!

Having remembered Lady Thatcher's birthday in Friday, I forgot my own Mother's birthday on Sunday.

Further comment would be superfluous.

The Iron Maiden turns 80

Birthday wishes are pouring in honour of Baroness Thatcher's 80th birthday, so I thought I'd post my own.

Happy birthday, you rancid, heartless, cacky-fingered old witch. If you were on fire, I would not bother to cross the street to piss on you. Not that your combustion would have any positive affect, since you've already left a lasting legacy in the shape of your charmless and amoral progeny.

Margaret Thatcher - a cross between Ayn Rand and a pit-bull

Bush invites squaddies round to his place

President Bush concluded a (by accounts rather clumsy) video feed to troops in Iraq by inviting them around when they're back in the US to "come by and say hello".

I wouldn't recommend it, the Bush's hospitality is not exactly renowned. The last person to drop by his Crawford ranch for a cup of tea and chat, Cindy Sheehan, ended up camping in the back yard for 2 months without so much as a jammy dodger or an eccles cake.

Tight-fisted bastard, that Bush, but at least he knows how to deal with unwanted guests.

Bright lights and academic fights

I was in Las Vegas for the first time last weekend. What a terrible, wonderful place Las Vegas is. I'm dying to tell you all about it. I'm dying to tell you about the free porn, about trying to find a new truck battery at 1 am, about going back to my redneck roots by driving along a dirt road trying not to spill my beer. But I'm not going to, because a) everyone bangs on about Vegas so much that it's just a cliche now, and b) 'What goes in Vegas stays in Vegas' - and you can't argue with the wisdom of a city that gives out yard-long margueritas, can you?

Instead, I'm going to whine about one of the new PhD students, a cultural geographer, who complained to me about how much work she has. I haven't been home in two days (thank christ my office has a sofa), and yet this bint who's idea of a PhD is a couple of years reading in the library and then drafting some theory that nobody can prove or disprove has the temerity to complain about her workload. Far be it from me to denigrate someone else's research, but what kind of a thesis is Feminist Geographies of Gender and Sexuality? I ask you.

Normally, I would have told her to fold her thesis until it's all sharp corners and stick it up her 'gender specific void', but there's still an outside chance that she might sleep with me so I just made a sympathetic but noncommital comment.

There's a Brazilian in my dungeon

There is a new PhD student, an oceanographer, sharing my office, which (for reasons apparent to anyone who has visited it) I fondly term The Dungeon. As those who love a sterotype know (and God knows, living by stereotypes is a lot easier than actually thinking), Brazilians are extroverted, sensual, fun-loving people, which makes them great drinking partners but lousy office mates.

The phone is in almost constant use, and my intellectual processes are now disturbed by an insistent foreign yammering. I don't speak any Portuguese, but I can only surmise that she's not talking about work (unless ocean dynamics are a lot more exciting than I realise).

Jabbering, always jabbering. It's like being a schizophrenic, except that the voices in my head are actual voices, and instead of urging me to rape and kill women they're urging me to tell her to go and derive the UNESCO equation of state (the oceanographic equivalent of 'go wash your head in a bucket of pig's blood, bitch').

A PhD student's office is not the place for fun. It is the place where we execute our commitment to the intellectual meat grinder that is American academia.

The Ambassador of Santa Monica and Venice

I met the Ambassador of Santa Monica and Venice this morning. At least that's what he said he was, although to be honest I was surprised to see a diplomat using the bus. He then broke into song, before telling a young woman she should be in the movies, and then laughing maniacally for five minutes. The rest of the bus passengers, almost all UCLA students, stared hard at their books in an attempt to avoid the burning question of why they were building up so much debt to get an education, when this man could eke out a living just by being happily insane to strangers.

I get to see nutters like this all the time, mostly because the bus I take goes from Santa Monica (beaches, plenty of public toilets, and relatively liberal police who won't kick the shit out of homeless people and then dump them off downtown) to the Veteran's centre (where presumably they get a nice cup of tea, some free medication and the chance to swap a few war stories).

It's easy to tell which bums are Vietnam veterans because they're male, of a certain age, and they're the only one's who aren't begging. I'm not sure what it says about a nation that a significant proportion of it's homeless population have psychological problems stemming from their military service. Maybe the British Ministry of Defence has an opinion.