things what i have found a melange of excerpta by the egregious sdmtr, a disaffected malcontent
10 PRINT “BOOBS”20 GOTO 10

10 PRINT “BOOBS”
20 GOTO 10

The whole of our civilisation relies on thin strands of fibre no more than a few centimetres across, strung like a coelacanth’s party lights in the crushing depths of the world’s oceans. Sometimes an errant anchor or angry sperm whale will sever a link and for the briefest moment the lights on your modem will flicker, but the internet just routes around the damage and, for the most part, you and I will barely notice. Well, usually.
(Click the image above to see an enormous map of all the submarine cables around the world, along with their capacities, costs, and carriers.)

The whole of our civilisation relies on thin strands of fibre no more than a few centimetres across, strung like a coelacanth’s party lights in the crushing depths of the world’s oceans. Sometimes an errant anchor or angry sperm whale will sever a link and for the briefest moment the lights on your modem will flicker, but the internet just routes around the damage and, for the most part, you and I will barely notice. Well, usually.

(Click the image above to see an enormous map of all the submarine cables around the world, along with their capacities, costs, and carriers.)

Brownian motion

Shut the fuck up, Donny

Shut the fuck up, Donny

Lurking beneath the houses and high rises of Roosevelt Island, NY lies a network of pneumatic tunnels called Avac: a vacuum-driven garbage collection system that sucks away trash at sixty miles an hour.

Torture one poor word ten thousand ways
— Dryden.
Lawyers,
Sly ware.

Punishment,
Nine thumps.

Revolution,
Love to ruin.

Penitentiary,
Nay, I repent it.               

Paradise lost,
Reap sad toils.
French Revolution,
Violence run forth.

Astronomers,
moon starers,

Presbyterian,
Best in prayer.

Old England,
Golden land.

Paradise regained,
Dead respire again.

A selection of anagrams from Literary frivolities, fancies, follies and frolics (1880)

As I walked by myself I talked to myself,
    And thus myself said to me,
Look to thyself and take care of thyself,
    For nobody cares for thee.
So I turned to myself, and I answered myself,
    In the self-same reverie,
Look to myself or look not to myself,
    The self-same thing will it be.

This bit of nonsense was published in The Real Mother Goose (1916), a well-known collection of fairy tales and nursery rhymes, but appears to have an older and slightly more sinister provenance: the gravestone of a man buried in Homersfield, Suffolk, in 1810. 

Frank Hayes died, as many do, of a fatal heart attack.

Slightly rarer was the fact that his heart attacked while Frank was perched atop a fine horse called Sweet Kiss, who was busy winning a race at the Belmont Park racetrack in New York.

Frank is therefore the only jockey before or since to win a race posthumously. Sweet Kiss couldn’t be reached for comment.

Former or latter, your choice

Former or latter, your choice