…the horror, the terror, the recovery.

This escaped me and I do not understand how.  As a reader of several Swedish news sources, I do not understand the delay in reporting such a catastrophe in the era of the 24-hour news cycle.  I suppose, with things on a scale as grand as this, the media was simply performing its due diligence and not alerting the general public until it had thoroughly researched every fact before going to press.  Maybe this is the media’s correcting its behavior as it relates to all of the fake news stories it has been printing since The Angry Yam descended the escalator in Dump Towers and declared his intent to drive the world into the ground.  Or, perhaps, an agreement has been reached?  No news regarding the safety of human beings shall be dispersed to citizens until Our Dear Leader, Orange Foolius, informs us directly, preferably at a rally at an airport with only his most devout followers in attendance.

Imagine my emotional state when I discovered that my second country, the place that occupies my heart, the home to many of my dearest friends was attacked.  Attacked in a manner so violent, the newly sensible media thought about the general public for once and chose to withhold all reporting and publishing of photographs to keep us snowflakes from being triggered.

My friends, shaken to the core and traumatized so significantly, were unable to utilize Facebook’s safety check feature.  From what I have been able to ascertain, neither Kitten nor Blitz were able to access a cellphone signal on Friday night.  Their social media platforms were silent from early Friday evening until midday Saturday.  I can only deduce that PM Löfven is working in concert with the Tang Tyrant’s administration – withholding details until Our Dear Leader addresses his public first.  After all, we’re living in an America First era.

A friend of mine is an editor of a fairly large news outlet which provides news for expats in English in multiple countries in the EU.  It was only this morning that I managed to obtain two pictures of the damage to Sweden on Friday night.  I may be at risk of breaching trust but I understand the source of the photos has been thoroughly vetted and I fundamentally believe they must be shared with the general public.  I do not understand how and why the Short-Fingered Vulgarian is not allowing the New York Times or the Washington Post to print them. From a different source, I managed to obtain a copy of Kim Jong-un’s media management strategy guide which is circulating through the upper echelon of Our Dear Leader’s administration.  This will be shared at a later date, when my request for asylum has been granted.

I hasten to add, the images you are about to see are not appropriate for children.  If you find yourself easily agitated, you may want to stop reading at this point.  And, as I said on one of my social media platforms, when the Red Cross begins its text message drive for donations, please, please donate.  Sweden is a country of 10 million.  It has resources and a very strong social welfare system.  But, it will still need assistance from generous donors in order to appropriately distribute tools for clean up, medical services, water, etc…

snökuken Göteborg

snökuken Göteborg

snökuken Göteborg, recovery & clean up

snökuken Göteborg, recovery & clean up

Jag är Sverige för alltid.

No! A fence? But…

Seriously, man, what’s with the fence?
Is your paranoia so intense,
You actually thought we were watching you?
Does that seem like something we would do?
Whatever you’re doing, we do not care.
Having cocaine sex parties over there?
Walking around in just your underwear?
Walk around naked while you’re at it,
Because we simply do not give a shit.
We’re just sitting here minding our own.
Not thinking of you. No interest shown.
Never talking to you, except saying, “Hi!”
And then you freak out and wonder why,
We actually said hello to you.
That’s simply what nice people do.
But you didn’t like it, not at all.
So much so, you built a wall,
To keep you safe from all the spies.
And from all those other prying eyes.
A BIG WALL to keep out Peeping Toms,
About as subtle as an atomic bomb.
A expensive stupid social blunder.
But now we cannot help but wonder.
Just what is it that you’re trying to hide?
What’s really going on inside?
We didn’t care at all before,
You built that wall.
Now we want to know more.

Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: Ronald Reagan and His Sheeple

Thinking.  You’re doing it wrong.  Alternatively, not at all.

Good grief.  The is powerful.

Good grief. The stupid…it is powerful.

This shit popped up today.  Isn’t it just sooooooo funny‽  Don’t you see the fucking hilarity of it all?  If Ronald Reagan was alive, ISIS would be WASWAS!!!!   ZOMG – The sheer brilliance of it all!  King Ronnie would shepherd his flock to safety.  He would save the world!  No more pesky and nagging threats from radical religious fundamentalists with a thirst for blood and an unyielding need for decapitating human beings.  Peace on Earth shall be.  Finally.  And after that, King Ronnie would quickly rid the world of the scourge that is Welfare Queens in Escalades.  Although, he’ll only do that to those who are of color.  White, corporate welfare queens; you are safe.  Kindly resume life in your ivory towers giving zero fucks about the struggle outside the moat.  It is not yours to manage.

And this is why Rainbow Dash is 20% cooler than you.

And this is why Rainbow Dash is 20% cooler than you.

What these people who post this tripe fail to understand is that Al-Qaeda and its bastard children are the fucking product of Ronald Reagan’s foreign policy.  In the spirit of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Ronald Reagan armed, trained and developed the militia that is now Al-Qaeda (and subsequent splinter groups cum bastard children).  This is a fucking fact.  Yet, it’s so oft overlooked, I wonder where my generation was when this was in the news?  Oh wait – outside playing until the street lights come on.  That’s right.  I forgot about the series of memes waxing idiotic about the good old days when it was acceptable to beat your kids and kids didn’t sit in front of screens all of the time.  Also, do homework.

And, furthermore, how was Reagan going to deal with ISIS?  Was he going to deploy that monument to awesome military strategy taught to all West Pointers?  You know the one I’m talking about – running away like a fucking coward when 241 Marines were slaughtered in Beirut?

These people who think Ronald Reagan was the Second Coming (more like the Second Coming of Lucifer if you happen to be religious) seemingly overlook all that was wrong with the 80s.  They forget about the bullshit that is “Trickle Down Economics.”  Fuck that.  Why should any of us have to wait for a fucking trickle?  Why didn’t anyone ask that question?  You work hard.  You think a trickle is an acceptable reward for your labor?  This bitch doesn’t.  This bitch, like many other bitches, doesn’t break her back so an executive can have a golden parachute.

Iran/Contra.  I could go on for hours about that because I listened to every single hearing during the summer of 1987.  I’m emotionally scarred.  My shrink has advised me not to go back to that point in time.

The dissolution of the family farm.  Now, we have agricorporations.  It’s not unlike the health care model Nixon and Kaiser developed in the 70s.  Shut out the little guys, allow the big corporations to take over and *presto* instant monopoly, albeit legal.

These are mere highlights of one of the absolute worst things to befall this country.  And people line up to metaphorically gargle the balls of Saint Ronnie’s corpse.  Not even Nancy would go that far (unless her astrologer told her to).

So, for those spreading the ISIS/WASWAS, for those who ache for the golden era of Ronald Reagan and for Ronald Reagan and his political cabinet (less James Brady) – CONGRATULATIONS, MOTHERFUCKERS.  You are the recipient of this week’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award.

Don't like it?  There's the door, sugartits.

Don’t like it? There’s the door, sugartits.

While we’re on the subject of pens…

Ohhh…I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay. I write with a girly pen all day…

Perhaps, dear readers, you have already heard about Bic’s new “for her” line of ball point pens. They are nice and soft so as not to damage a woman’s delicate hands, and come in appropriately girly colors. Oh bless.

Okay, stop laughing. Take a deep breath and calm down. While this is definitely a “what were they thinking” kind of product, one may perhaps understand where they were coming from by examining some of Bic’s other products. They do produce pink disposable razors “for women” which are purchased most enthusiastically by the fairer sex. So why not market a special pink pen just for women?

Makes sense, right? Well…no. We’re not buying it, both literally and figuratively. However, while these women’s pens are totally stupid and utterly sexist, they have produced a number of hilariously ironic reviews on Amazon. This one is my favorite:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a pen.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a stationers, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their salespeople. However, this has not always been the case for young ladies.

“My dear Mr. Hodgson,” said my lady to me one day, “have you heard that Bic are making writing tools for ladies at last?”

I replied that I had not.

“But they are,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”

I made no answer. Surely this could not be true, why would a woman have need of such a thing?

“Do not you want to know who will buy them?” cried my wife impatiently.

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it,” I said.

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, a well known online retail establishment have been selling these, and it has encouraged young Lizzy to attempt to write down her fanciful ideas . Apparently a young lady from a nearby town has even done so and attempted to write a book!”

“What is her name?” I asked her.


“Is she married or single?”

“Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A man could never want to marry a young woman who thinks anything she has to say is so interesting it could need to be written down,” said my wife, most accurately.

And so it was that I assured her that there would be nothing to worry about, that women do not need special pens, no matter what Mr. Bic may think, and that nothing would ever come of this young ‘Jane Austen’ girl and her flights of fancy.

The End.

P.S. Lizzy says she is a bit fed up of pink and purple, when do we get some in a nice floral pattern?

Down with Stuff!

It’s the First of May!
The day when we say
Down with Stuff
That’s not okay!

Down with oppression!
With harsh regimes.
And down with
Stupid internet memes.

Down with recession!
With the one percents,
Add software
License agreements.

Down with repression!
With economic squeeze,
And down with…


Down With Trees!

(No, not all the trees.
Just the ones
That make me sneeze.)


Today’s word is inspired by a cheating incident we encountered today at work. A number of students were assigned an essay on a health-related topic, and most of them pillaged other writers’ work rather than writing down any thoughts of their own. This is a case of straight-forward plagiarism.

In my day, students knew how to cheat properly, which is to say they knew how to get away with it and minimize their chances of getting caught. These students’ efforts at plagiarism were pitiful and amateurish. They just copied and pasted directly from various websites without bothering to paraphrase anything, which is just plain stupid. They were practically begging to get caught.

Not only that, they also cheated off each other. One student actually copied and pasted another student’s copied and pasted off the internet essay. I think we need a new word or phrase to describe this phenomenon, like supercheating or supreme cheating.

Any ideas?

Green Laser Assault

I was assaulted at work today by a student with a green laser pointer. Here in Sweden, these green lasers are considered dangerous and are therefore illegal to bring into, well, almost anywhere: schools, airports, any public building really. This student was apparently unaware that it’s illegal to bring a green laser into a school and that shining it into someone’s face is considered assault. Yep, he shined it right into my face, as well as one other teacher’s face and the faces of several students. He was just trying to be an annoying asshole, not knowing that the way he was doing it was a criminal act. Not that this matters. Ignorance of the law does not excuse one from breaking it.

It’s just a damn good thing that he didn’t shine the laser directly into my eyes, since I have epilepsy. He didn’t know that either, he said, otherwise he never would have done it. Cute. I got it on the side of my face, though. I was standing next to the front door talking to a couple of students when I saw this green glow in the corner of my eye. When I looked up I saw the student hide something in his hand. I then went back to talking to the students and it happened again. The little bastard did it twice. I guess he thought it was only some harmless fun, but it really did scare me. You don’t screw around with that kind of thing when you have this condition. I walked over to him, almost shaking at this point, and told him to never, ever, EVER, shine that laser in my or anyone else’s face ever again. He mumbled an apology and I went back to work. A few minutes later, though, I saw one of my colleagues talking to the student and he was not happy. Not happy at all, for he had gotten the green laser right in his eyes. As he was talking/yelling to the student, he (the student) kept getting more and more belligerent. At one point I thought he was going to hit my colleague.

At this point neither of us knew that green lasers are illegal in schools and shining them in people’s eyes is an assault, but we learned this shortly afterward. My colleague attempted to confiscate the laser but the student was adamant that he didn’t have it anymore. He had apparently given it to a friend. We tracked down this friend and, naturally, he didn’t have it either. The laser-wielding student was then suspended from school and asked to leave. Unfortunately we weren’t yet aware that this was a matter for the police. We found out after he left. We were get in touch with the police tomorrow, though.

The student will be removed from the school. If he doesn’t leave voluntarily, then we’ll make it a police matter and he’ll be forced to change schools. The owner of the school won’t want to do this though, since he’s afraid this will tarnish the image of the school. Bullshit to that, I say. A student did something wrong and we did something about it. How will that make the school look bad? If we did nothing, it would make the school look worse. Anyway, this is all moot. The student broke the law and the police have to be contacted about it. If the school won’t then I will, goddammit. Even though I was told that I would probably lose my job if I did.

I just want to make the student into an example and show the other students that there are consequences to their actions. They kept saying that they thought we were making such a big deal over nothing and it really wasn’t that important. If that’s how they feel about it then I guess they wouldn’t mind if they had a green laser shined into their eyes for five seconds and suffer searing pain and permanent retinal damage. Then, we’ll see if they still think it’s not that important.

WOTD: harlot

Today’s word is one of those words that should be used more often. It’s basically an old fashioned word for prostitute or whore. I used it recently in a poem and now my fellow RM members are using it.

And why shouldn’t they? It’s a delightful word that describes so many people, not just the whores, prostitutes, hookers, call girls, escorts, courtesans and other assorted naughty ladies of the night.

For example: “I’d like a word with the harlots responsible for the latest Facebook layout. It’s truly dreadful.” See, you could substitute the word “cunts” or similar, but I think using the word harlots makes it much more colorful and interesting.

The word harlot for me conjures up an image of a slightly chubby flame-haired prostitute bulging out of black and red lingerie and with a black feather boa draped around her shoulders. There’s also tinny old-timey piano music playing in the background and a bunch of cowboys standing around a bar drinking corn liquor.

Yes, them. Those Wild West harlots are responsible for the latest Facebook layout disaster.

When is a hospital not a hospital?

When it’s a medical center. Even if it calls itself a hospital.

I left work early yesterday because I was feeling very poorly: dizzy, lightheaded, disoriented, and feeling in my head as if I was riding a roller coaster. I told my boss I had to leave and he told me to go to the nearest hospital. He even offered to put me in a taxi and pay for me to get there, but I said I could probably make it on my own. Anyway, I called Tobias (Swedish boyfriend) and he said he’d meet me at Capio Lundby Hospital, since it was the nearest one. At least I thought it was.

When we got there the staff seemed confused as to why we were there, since this was apparently not a hospital but a local clinic or medical center (vårdcentral in Swedish), despite the fact that the sign on the outside clearly reads, “Hospital.”

“So, uh… why did you come here?” the receptionist asked.

“I need to see a doctor right away and this is nearest hospital to where I live.” I said.

“Oh,” she said, “Well, that’s an easy mistake to make. It says hospital on the building but it’s not really a hospital. We don’t take emergency patients. For that you need to go to one of the emergency hospitals.”

She agreed that it was a stupid rule but that rules are rules.

At this point, I began to get really upset, since I was feeling genuinely awful and no one seemed willing to help me. They then took me into a room and let me sit down while a very kind and sympathetic nurse talked to me and calmed me down. She looked up the number of my neurologist and had Tobias call his office. He didn’t speak to the doctor but after giving an explanation of my symptoms to one of the nurses there, it was I suggested I go to the emergency room ASAP.

The problem was that the nearest emergency room was across town, and it would take us an hour to get there on public transport. So, the hospital/medical center arranged for a taxi to take us there at their expense. They did seem sincerely sorry that they couldn’t treat me and were being as helpful as they could. The taxi ride took about fifteen minutes.

Eventually I was admitted to triage and was seen to by a whole team of nurses and doctors. They did an EKG test, took lots of blood and urine, asked me a bunch of questions, and fixed me right up. It was nice that I didn’t have to wait very long either. It was the shortest emergency room visit I ever experienced. In and out in about two hours time.

So, to make a long story short, if you ever find yourself in Sweden and need to go to the emergency room, make sure that the hospital you go to really is a proper emergency hospital. Not all of them are. I found out the hard way.

WOTD: priggish

After a looooooong pause, here at last is a Word of the Day. I’ll see if I can get back into the normal routine of posting one word per day. Mostly. I took a break during summer vacation.

Anyway, today’s word was inspired by Shark’s previous post about the fallacy-ridden letter to the editor. He sent me the link to a previous letter he thought was particularly amusing. Someone writes about how offended they were after seeing a photo of a “half-naked” woman used to publicize a local stage production. Well, it turns out that the woman in the photo can hardly be described as naked or even “half-naked” since all of her offensive parts are covered up. She might be considered scantily clad, though, as she is pictured wearing shorts and a bikini top.

There were a few comments submitted by readers advising the writer of the letter to lighten up, but the following comment is by far the best:

This priggish prude should crawl back into her convent. This is 2011, for *****sake!

This brings us to our word, priggish. It’s the adjective form of the word prig, which is defined as, “a person who displays or demands of others pointlessly precise conformity, fussiness about trivialities, or exaggerated propriety, especially in a self-righteous or irritating manner.”

The word itself seems to have come straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Maybe that’s because it describes so many Jane Austen characters. Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice is the perfect example.