Stephen Witherden’s Website :: Funny

I was scheduled to travel back to South Africa: my country of birth. A place I hadn’t been to since I was 18 years old, about 13 years ago.

Everything was planned (in as much as I ever plan anything) down very finely. I arrived in Auckland from Brisbane at 7pm on Sunday, did a bunch of church finances, got the information to the auditor the next morning, handed over a bunch of work and prepared for the day-long meeting at work on Tuesday. The day-long meeting itself lasted from 9am to 2pm, thereafter I quickly whipped up the minutes, sent my final emails to those who needed input from me and raced to the university to give a guest lecture from 5pm to 7pm. Dinner and a shower later and I was off visiting a special someone up on the North Shore before the great trek.

As you can imagine it was a situation of mild panic packing my bags once I got home at around midnight. All I needed to do was get to the bus stop by 3am and I’d make my 6:15am flight in plenty of time. As I packed my toiletries I noticed I was out of razor blades. Hmm, I should buy more of those, I’ll just pop out to the store.

I ran up the stairs unlocked the door and stepped out. In one fluid unthinking movement, I locked and closed the door behind me.

Oh… bugger.

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My managing director, Thomas, made the mistake of asking me that phatic question as I was flitting around the office on Friday morning last month. At the best of times, I’m the sort of person who will answer that common question painfully truthfully. As it was, I had far too much information to impart on anyone daring to ask such a question.

“Well, Thomas, I’m in tip top condition!” I replied gleefully, hoping I’d get the chance to elaborate on the precise metrics by which I was “fine”.

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In America, the U-turn is a common, accepted manuver. It’s so common in fact that they have signs expressly encouraging you to do u-turn and lanes specifically designed for that purpose.

We New Zealanders find this an hilarious thing because in our country, the U-turn is right up there with peeing in someone else’s tea (or your own tea for that matter). You just don’t do it. It’s just not acceptable behaviour on the roads. To the extent that there are signs saying precisely the opposite: “no u-turn”, even when a u-turn is precisely the most logical course of action. Say, for example, you’ve gone over the harbour bridge by mistake, which happens more frequently than we’d like to admit.

Well, New Zealand has launched into the 21st century with what I believe to be the first (for our country) U-turn traffic light. Feast your eyes! Yes, it’s true, that sign on the right is actually a “U-turn” traffic light, in New Zealand (East Tamaki, to be precise). Below are images of the sign in action:

I lay down on my bed to watch a nice classic episode of Star Trek (The Next Generation) and it happened: with a sickening crunch and a thud, the back-left bed post finally disengaged itself from the rest of the bed and the bed landed hard on the junk that I had stuffed under it.

Now, to answer the question everyone seems to ask when I tell this story: no it wasn’t in the throes of passion, this bed hasn’t seen much in the way of passion (at least not since I have used it). It’s also not because I’ve gained weight. The bed had been threatening to give out ever since I moved in and the second-rate rental property furniture (not mine, I should point out) finally gave way when I sat my suitably trim behind onto it to indulge in a movie.

So, in true kiwi style, I propped my bed up with the jack from my car and continued with my movie (click on the image for more detail). New Zealanders have a concept called “number 8 wire” which refers to a common gauge of fencing wire used here.

The notion is that New Zealanders have a “can-do” MacGyver attitude when it comes to problem solving and can generally solve a problem with simple, everyday resources at their disposal.

In South Africa, we would say “‘n boer maak ‘n plan” or “a farmer makes a plan” to describe a similar concept.

MacGyver image from Rienk Jan Schurer.

Some of you may remember my escapades with a piece of American culture: pancake covered sausage onna stick. I recently had a new cultural experience that I just had to share. It’s the legendary Oreo Pizza. Yes, Dominos actually makes a dessert pizza called the “Oreo Pizza”. I, of course, just had to try it:

I am sorry to report that it tastes like cardboard covered in chocolate cookies and cream. I am not exaggerating, the dough is so thin and tasteless I wondered for a moment if I had popped the box into my mouth by mistake. Bon appetite! I have more pictures of the oreo pizza here.

A few posts back, I promised more Barenaked Ladies. That’s the band, not actual ladies. BNL had quite a few popular songs, although most people don’t know all that much about them since most of their stuff is actually a little off the wall. One of their most popular songs was a quasi-rap called “One Week”. I recall with some fondness listening to my friend “V” singing along to the words:

How can I help it if I think you’re funny when you’re mad?
Trying hard not to smile, though I feel bad.
I’m the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral.
Don’t understand what I mean?
Well you soon will.

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Those of you who know me know I love to sing. Lately, most of my singing happens while I am in the car, driving from home to work or work to home. Here’s a selection I recorded.

• We Didn’t Start the Fire
• And so it goes
• Caro Mio Bien
• Danny Boy
• Old Man River

I hope y’all get a kick out of it.

And now for something completely different…

I came across this example of fine American cuisine at my local Walmart, so I absolutely had to get it. Notice that it’s artificial blueberry flavoured. Yum!

I must admit, when I saw these featured on the Daily Show, I thought it was a joke. Sadly not.

“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Beautiful words, credited to Herodotus who lived over 2000 years ago. What about snow and rain I wonder? Surely that’s a different story entirely.

I awoke a little earlier than usual this morning. I’d gone to sleep late and so had set my alarm in case I dozed too long. There was no scraping, skidding or any other noise outside: promising. There was, however, a faint and ominous “cracking” noise: dubious.

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Part of the Vegas experience is being constantly accosted by people trying to sell you something. Sometimes it’s a scruffy looking man in jeans and a T-shirt trying to sell you line passes to a club or half price tickets to tonight’s shows. Other times it’s a man dressed primly in a suit and tie, behind a desk at the hotel, inviting you to come over and see his specials in the most foreign of accents.

Sarah and I soon realised that neither Mr. Jeans nor Mr. Suit were really offering us anything we wanted. One afternoon, as we walked into the Venetian (on our way to see two of my favourite shows: Phantom and Blue man Group) we were confronted by a tall man in a suit with a distinctly Scandinavian accent.

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It’s my friend Alastair’s birthday soon and I saw something that reminded me of him, so I got it. I don’t normally give birthday gifts, not because I don’t care, but because I don’t normally know what to get and don’t just want to get something for the sake of it.

Anyway, I got his address on Saturday evening and wanted to post it to him this morning. Many of my colleagues had complained bitterly about the postal service (or lack thereof) in the US, but I was optimistic. I drove to the post office this Sunday at around midday and was disappointed but not surprised: they were closed.

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Well, I mentioned that my trip back from Portland was “harrowing”, so I thought I should elaborate. It makes for a short but all too familiar story. It all starts with something known as the “puffer” (no, it’s not dirty, well, as far as I know anyway). The puffer is the machine shown on the right.

I was making my way through security, taking off my shoes, my bracelet and glasses and trying to juggle all of that in my hands. For some reason the security guards always seem to pick me for special treatment. Maybe it’s because they can sense that I am reasonably amiable and I’m not in too much of a hurry, so they can afford to mess me around a bit.

Or maybe it’s because I try to do things efficiently and they get annoyed watching me standing there with my shoes in my hand, all metallic things conveniently stuffed into one of them. Maybe they think: “I’ll show that smug bastard what airport security is all about.”

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Here’s an interesting thing that happened to me while I was in Austin. It’s a short story but it bears repeating. I was on my way from the governor’s mansion, back to my car. Sadly the mansion was closed but I did get some nice pictures. Anyway, I was walking past a bus stop in front of the capitol building. I stopped to take a photo then carried on walking, as I did, someone walking in the opposite direction shouted: “You know what? You’re now on what’s known as 24 hour TV!”

I raised an eyebrow and carried on walking a few paces, then turned around and lifted my sunglasses inquisitively. The man who had said this was now on the other side of the bus stop, pacing in an irritably. Some young guys near me were chuckling nervously behind their hands.

I turned to go then turned around again. I was curious, I wanted to know what he had meant by that and if he was talking to me, he seemed to be in a great deal of distress and I wondered if I could help. Besides which, the place was littered with police and it was the middle of the day, what could he do? Yell some more?

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Well, as you may have remembered me mentioning about 100 times, Rockwall county is a dry county. This means that technically, one cannot purchase alchohol anywhere in the county. Guns yes, beer, no. Of course, in reality people find ways to get around these strange laws.

Welcome to Mobile City! Population: 196. That’s right, you heard me: 196 people. What does this have to do with alchohol you ask? Well, as it turns out: everything. Aren’t you just dying to know? Click “more” to find out!

Firstly, the way that bars get around this problem is they call themselves “clubs”. In that way, they are “private houses” (not “public houses” or “pubs”). They serve drinks to their “members”. To become a member, you give them your driver’s license. Often if a group of you are drinking, they only require one of you to be a “member” and technically, they consider you to be the one consuming the alchohol of everyone there.
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Sorry, Doug, this one is all words.I applied for my social security number today (Monday). When I first arrived here in Texas, the guys here told me that I would not be able to apply for my SSN until 20 days had past. So, I patiently waited 20 days (hopefully you noticed the day counter on the left of the web page).

During my lunch break I made my way into Greenville. Now, Greenville is probably best described as a farming community town. In that it is quite small and rural. Not much in the way of skyscrapers if you catch my drift. I went up through the main street and eventually found the Social Security Administration office. Kind of strange seeing residential houses still in what would be considered by most to be the centre of town. (more…)

Well, I can safely say getting to Dallas, Texas was something of an ordeal. Not quite as harrowing as getting the citizenship, Visa and passport in the first place but certainly bad enough.

This story is a little long, so I have broken it up into the three legs (Auckland to Los Angales, Los Angeles to Denver and finally Denver to Dallas). Sit back, grab a cup of coffee and enjoy. I will add more instalments later in the week.

Sarah and I left for the airport early, at around about 1pm. My flight was scheduled for 5:55pm, so the recommended 3 hour check-in time was at 2:55pm. I sauntered up to the desk at about 1:30pm and asked to check in for my first and longest flight: QF25, Auckland to Los Angeles.

“I’m sorry sir, but you are too early” came the reply “please come back later”.

Too early? How is it I can possibly be too early? We are all told to check in at least 3 hours before departure, which is 2:55pm. The reason we are given is so as to allow for plenty of time for customs to cavity search us on the way through.
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I’ve had to fill out a lot of forms lately. Forms for NZ security clearance, forms for visa applications to the US, forms for this and forms for that. Lots of paper and lots of annoying PDF documents that have been designed so I can’t even save the form or email it, I have to print the jolly thing.

Anyway, this process can sometimes feel a little demeaning. For example, the security clearance one asked me to list 4 people who know me well, who have known me for 5 years or more, who are not related to each other, not related to me, not co-workers, who I have seen in the last year and who I do not live with. So, in essence: “list your friends”. Uhh… do I even have 4 of those?

Also, I was asked to list all the countries I have visited in the last 10 years (not a whole lot) the degrees I have received (not a lot) and the jobs I have had (not a whole lot there either).

Essentially, these forms really ask: “so how much have you achieved over the last 10 years or so”. Like I said, kind of demeaning. Glad they didn’t ask me how much sex I’ve been having lately, that would truly have been embarrassing.

I did get a big laugh though. The question depicted above was part of an American form, of course.

Disclaimer: Some of my friends, colleagues and family may be weirded out by this post but really, guys, it’s just sex.

A few years ago I came up with an idea that I thought could make millions: what if we built computer peripherals that used haptics (force feedback, touch-sentitivity, sensation etc) to provide sexual stimulus?

Imagine, people could hook themselves up and engage in perfectly safe sex. Imagine the enhancements to cyber sex, imagine “interactive” porn. Imagine how much money there is to be made and how it could further research in to real improvements in technology? Let’s face it, sex sells, and haptics is an exciting research area that deserves mor funding.

Before you call me a rotten pervert, I should point out that this idea is about 20 years old and is known as teledildonics. Who originally coined the term? Oh, just the guy who came up with the term “hypertext” and “hypermedia”, that’s all.

dDot of Slashdong (that’s right, slashdong) currently has a paper accepted at the prestigious CHI (Computer Human Interaction) conference this year, the paper is to do with this very topic. *waves to qDot*

So, the idea is alive and well. Sadly, the technology is, to be frank, in the dark ages. Here are a few links to examples (warning, not safe for work):
Full stroke - who is going to attach that to their privates?
Priceless - you want me to put my cordless drill where?
Venus - An air compressor? Are you crazy?

Will a future brain-to-brain iterface as depicted in the movie Demolition Man eventually supplant the need for actual sex altogether? I hope not.

I took Lara out to dinner at Angus Steak House on Friday last week.

No, Mom, it’s not like that.

It all came about because Lara was lamenting that she is always the person who organises things and unless she organises things, they never happen. So, as I tend to do, I spontaneously suggested something random: “ok, I will take you out to dinner at Angus steak house and we can have a steak, since K doesn’t eat steak. How does that sound?”

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So, I got to use one of my tools today (so wah)! I brought the laser measure into work to lend it to Dean and it turned out to be useful for something vaguely work-related as well.

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