For a sea turtle in a 500,000 litre tank in Weymouth, Dorset, England, put brussel sprouts firmly on that list. After being giving the mini-cabbage as a treat for Christmas, bubbles in the tank caused an alarm to go off causing marine biologist Sarah Leaney to run to the tank thinking it was overflowing.
It was just water splashing on to a sensor from turtle farts.
"Sprouts are a healthy Christmas treat for sea turtles. But they give similar side effects to those experienced by humans."
Few of us do, but if you find yourself in front of the computer with a little down time and a need to be amused, the cityrag has taken the top ten list of the best cartoons as listed on wikipedia and found video links for all of them.
Every single damn one.
None left out.
No cartoon left behind.
Graham is dedicated to his cause and his cause is crime fiction. By organizing and maintaining the CrimeSpot, he has made many people's surfing days easier by putting in one place all of the places we like to go throughout the day.
For this and many other things (not the least of which is having the Swedish Chef appear so prominently on his page), Graham deserves to be saluted, canonized and nuzzled.
Thank you, Graham. Long may you post!
You've caught me at a vulnerable moment.
I've taken a sleeping pill for the first time in weeks and the full effects of it are apparent in my stumbling gait and my babbly nature. Although my mind is going a million miles a minute, I hope this little pill will begin to slow things down enough for to sleep deeply. For tomorrow, I clean.
After all the buying of gifts you're not sure the receiver wants, the holidays are about eating a lot of food in congregations of people who may not spend time with each other under other circmstances.
Preceeding this is the freakish cleaning of the house. I began mopping today. That was just the first mop. It gets of the hairy, baked on, ground in layer so I can attack the deep down evil dirt that resides in flooring that is anything but full on flat.
The kitchen will bring me to my knees with a scrub brush and hands protected by stinky gloves as they did into the toxic and strangely bright cleaning fluid needed to really clean a thirty-five year old floor.
I've no doubt I will eat at least half the Christmas cookies as I perform this task.
There are cats. You can guess what much of the cleaning will be:
- Puke patrol.
- De-furring everything.
- Scrubbing litter boxes.
- Repairing presents that have been munched on whilst I was off cleaning afore mentioned puke.
Then the Day of happens. Lots of wrapping paper mess. Lots. It was great when we had a dog. He would dive through that stuff with such unrestrained glee he made the whole cleaning process a joy. The cats... not so much.
You get a few days rest and bam! New Year's Eve. Fuck that. Get drunk and try to have as much fun as you can or your whole year will be shit. Again, fuck that. I hang with a low key group, drink lovely wine, eat wonderful food, watch movies and play poker - badly.
You won't get the debate about what Christmas is about from me (a pagan holiday optioned by the Church to spread the name of Christ and to keep those damned pagans from dancing naked in the garden that has turned into the last ditch effort for many retailers to make quota and have their CEO's earn their massive bonuses as ruffians roam the countryside stealing inflated Santa's and bright lights from the festive).
It's time to be with people you love, watch them open those presents you aren't quite sure they'll like and everyone eats until they go into food comas in front of the television. That's what this is all about, people. Don't forget that.
As per annual habit (let's not even elevate this to tradition) here is the yule tide fruit cake recipe:
You'll need the following:
1 cup of water
1 cup of sugar
4 large brown eggs
2 cups of dried fruit
1 teaspoon of salt
1 cup of brown sugar
1 bottle of whisky
Sample the whisky to check for quality.
Take a large bowl. Check the whisky again. To be sure it's the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.
Turn on the electric mixer, beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again. Make sure the whisky is still OK. Cry another tup. Tune up the mixer. Beat two leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit. Mix on the turner. If the fired druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it goose with a drewscriver.
Sample the whisky to check for tonsisticity.
Next, sift two cups of salt. Or somethnig.
Check the whisky.
Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Spoon the sugar into the bowel. Whatever you can find.
Grease the oven.
Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.
Don't forget to beat off the turner. Throw the bowl out of the window.
Check the whisky again and go to bed.
Which I shall do. It's to the point where I start typing semi-colons instead of l's and that's my brains way of telling me to go supine.
And we all know, never spend lots of money on a cat condo. Any box (shoe box on up in size) will be like a second home to a cat.
I love my feline babies but it would be nice to go out without clothes covered in fur. I went to the airport to pick up a friend and within seconds of hugging me, he too was coated.
Despite this and the tendency to puke in places your sure to step the next morning as you stumble around in a post sleep stupor, cats are indeed wonderful.