Picture Perfect

I bet you're wondering what warrants another post on this blog so soon after the last.
Actually, I'm pretty sure you're not wondering, were never curious in the first place and are currently shaking your heads and thinking to yourselves "NO! I don't care! Please don't tell me!"

It's for that reason alone I'm going to tell you.

After putting off reading about whether or not psychiatric/mental illness claims are actionable in court for most of the day, I finally got around to doing the reading. Well, most of it. Sadly, I can summarise 2 hours of mind-numbingly tedious reading into a single sentence: "yes, you can, if you can prove it - just like everything else."

Unfortunately, most of my law readings are tedious and mind-numbingly boring; afterall, it's a subject with a Latin phrase for everything and three textbooks explaining what those phrases mean, when you can use it, when not to use it and what you can use in defence against it. Pretty formulaic? You bet. But I just need to unwind after reading all that. Hence the post.

 
But enough about law!
I would like to talk to you about cows. Y'know, big black and white uddery-like creatures which give us milk. 4 legs too.

The thing is, these cows are pretty hefty animals. In fact they're massive and fat.

What I don't understand is, how do they get so bulky and maintain it?

Whilst logic dictates grass as the source of the cow's bulk, I seriously doubt the protein and vitamin value of grass, it's hardly a store of vast amounts of carbohydrates and fat, and I'm pretty sure if I subsist on any amount of grass I'll probably die within the week. Not only do cows not die from eating grass all day, it keeps them healthy and fat.

 
So what, then, is the secret of the cows bulk?

Are we missing something in grass itself?
Or is there more to our friend, the cow, than meets the eye? Are they scoffing cakes and muffins whilst no-one's watching? 

The mystery continues.
We may never know...The cow is just too sneaky for us.

Further to my post below, I am temporarily reopening this blog due to technicalities and laziness.

That is to say, updating my other blog from the source-code was getting tedious, to do even the most simple things (like typing) was boring me; there's only so many times I can constantly open-tag-b-close-tag open-tag-slash-b-close-tag. And the company I registered "duck eyes view" with (the name of my other blog) is some dodgy Eastern European one (who we've no doubt been forced into accepting with open arms into the EU, despite their inferior technology [pitchfork smelting], uptime [amount of time you have to de-seed your prize bull] and smelly breath [which we need for our new gas-based defence missiles]), no doubt operating out of a shack in some backwater of the most unpopular field in all Hungary where even the farmers with the worst pitchforks and smelliest breath don't go.


Then there's that freewebs.com site which hosts the site. It's rubbish too! Ok, the uptime is good, but the coding for the comment functions slows the connection down so much! after having more than 3 comments boxes on one page (the front one), it slows it down far, far too much. Of course, I could get around that by organising a proper archive system for the site and THAT is where the laziness comes in. See, American technology isn't the only thing we import. We import your bad taste and laziness too.

Oh, i'm sorry. Did I say something politically incorrect?
You laughed when I made fun of the Eastern Europeans, so what's the problem, sensitive all of a sudden now are we?

Of course, I don't think all Hungarians have smelly breath. Or have pitchforks. Or don't know what a computer is. And I don't think all Americans have bad taste and can't speak English. Just the politically correct amount of them.

ANYway. Back into the real world. University. Yeah. So. Cool, huh? No.
By the time I finish in uni, I expect to have enough reading material to last for the rest of my natural life, and may even have to extend it a little artificially in order to get through the stuff they give us. Apparantly, the powers-that-be in university think nothing of giving one person the equivalent of the entire Welsh National Library to read in a single week. Suffice to say, by now, I'm meant to know a lot more than I actually do. Even so, I do know Hobbes is a political-theorist who died a couple of hundred years ago and not a comic strip kid who has a talking tiger (it took time to realise this, but I got there).

Anthropology is hilarious.
The subject these young minds of Britain are currently contemplating is, "anthropological methodology," which is even worse than it sounds. "Boring" doesn't even begin to touch the surface, I almost feel obliged to create a new word which mixes the sentiments of "tourture," "extreme-poke-your-eyes-out-boredom," and "kill me quick!" to put over to the reader just how many brain cells are tragically crushed and destroyed by the considerable weight of the pointlessness and sheer boredom which is "anthropological methodology."


The teacher asks the same question at the start of every class; "was the article accessible?" The first time she asked that, I'm pretty sure half the class were thinking something along the lines of "well, it doesn't have access to rail, road or air, so no." Of course, no one actually said anything. So the teacher just smiled that bizzare false smile she smiles which says "i'm just not giving up, no matter how awkward this gets" (I'm sure you know the sort) until some poor soul put up her hand and said "actually, it was pretty boring."

In case you're wondering, that is not the right answer.
"I didn't ask if it was entertaining, I asked if it was accessible!"

Since then, "It's boring" is pretty much the first response she gets from the class (apparantly the young minds of Britain can't recall what happens from one week to the next and therefore repeats their mistakes every time without fail) if she gets any response at all. For my class is extremely quiet. In fact, it's so quiet that I, I who only participates when no one has anything else to say, participates most of the time most lessons (the "I-don't-participate" policy is due to me not wanting to be "that person who speaks the whole time," not wishing to attract unwanted attention (hey, I have to go to school with these people!) and more importantly, opting out of any in-class competition. It may be understood as opting in, as participating only when others can't or don't seems to say "Ha! I know it's complex, you know it's complex, and we both know I know the answer and you don't," but such an approach makes the mistake of presupposing I think that far ahead myself. don't read too much into my actions. It never helped anyone).

Due to the afforementioned participation, the teacher thinks I am some Warrior of Anthropological Methodolgy. I am not. Not really. But I did decide to make more of an effort for the Anthropology side of uni this term. Unfortunately, the effort in my law side has taken a direct hit due to this. I'm hoping to sort that out this week...(ok, so it's week 7/10, beter late than never).

But enough about university! More about other things.
As some of you may know (just arty, actually), I have taken up fencing. About 3-4 weeks ago. It is the best fun ever! But is so intense. If you're not fit and have taken up fencing, you will be fit pretty soon! The class I'm in is lovely and small, I love them one and all (not really, I just said that to rhyme). We practise poking each other with the blunt, bendy object people like to call "swords." The trick is to poke the person opposite you before they poke you, which is a pretty simple concept. Whilst I'm not entirely sure if he's having a laugh or not, we are always instructed to poke the person standing opposite us in the chest, or more specifically, on the right breast. If someone misses (guy or girl), the point of the sword is replaced on the right breast by the woman in question. Of course, us guys don't have breasts in the same sense women do, so we don't tend to replace the tips of swords anywhere. "If they miss, replace the point in the right place" the instructor insists. Today, he said "Ok guys, you must aim for the nipple. Girls, if they miss, direct them." Of course, he was being absolutely serious. So I proceeded to prod in the nipple area. After a time, he said "I thought it was only the men who didn't know where the nipples were."

(Of course, the prettiest girl [in my opinion] there happens to be French. Naturally, I did as I always do when confronted with a Frenchy: pretend to speak French [of which is generally approved, and was in this case too]. Thankfully, however, she speaks English (were I required to communicate in only French, I'd suddenly have very little to say). Today, she gave me the lovely honour of helping her out of her fencing gear (shexy, I know. She was actually the second girl to do so, meh heh heh). Why is this such an honour? It isn't. But shh.

Anyway, as I was saying. It took me ages to get those little, white, tight, cute uniforms off (feel the sexualness of it all? Yeah? GET OUT OF MY SITE. Weirdo). Especially from French girl, which prompted the instructor to say in that cheeky-voice "what exactly are you doing there?" I don't care, it was French girl! It would be worse if it was one of the guys.

Anyway, I digress. Fencing is such fun. It's all about the cute, white uniforms and using a long metal stick to poke lovely [and pretty] girls' breasts (kinky!), what's not to love?