I am sorry, I could initially not get the images to allign properly. To anyone possibly offended by this, I can assure that Mr. Clarkson has already been dispatched to shoot the responsible CRM developer ... in the world! erm I mean: face. End of public service announcement.

Recently I sourced myself one of these fancy Tublet PCs. Not one of those iPuds made by the new, evil empire of fomer rebels. Yes, thats right: My unmistakeable drive towards the underdogs has led me to buy a Windows tublet (that, and the fact that I sourced it cheap on Ebay, no doubt because the original owner believed it to be broken. Which it is not).

One of the first things I did with my new Tublet PC, right after I reinstalled it, was to put up one of these "Think Different" wallpapers - because "different" these days means not owning the Apple baseline pud. Oh, the sweet irony contained in this, it is such a joy to imagine how this realisation hits each and every one of the hardcore Jobsianites

Jobsianites

Soon then, I began to explore options. And we all know that ever since prehistoric man (or imp, or man-goose or such, I am not very knowledgeable about prehistoric times) climbed off the trees, settled into a cave and promptly got eaten by the fucking cavebear, mankind has dreamed of just one thing: Being able to play Jagged Alliance 2 (with fan mod) in the comfort of one's bathtub.

With this in mind it was that I announced to a member of my monkeysphere that I will build a proper tub holder for my tublet PC, because for some strange reason, the box didn't contain any of the tub accessories one expects in a decent tublet. Now, again since ancient times, there have been few things that motivate people (simple people, like me, mostly) to do stuff as much as someone laughing about it. So when the dude laughed about my plans to build a tub holder, that set in motion all those little wheels and cogs in my head which trigger the voice inside me that says "I'll show you, you little ..." (that voice inside me is always the voice of Homer Simpson, and should be read accordingly).

So, not without pride and a trophy made from a dead cavebear head (you won't believe what can be sourced on Ebay these days ...) I present to the world: My tublet PC - the way 

Computers,  the way Bill Gates and Ideal Standard imagined

The reca W500 tublet PC in its natural habitat

To aid my fellow, possibly handywork-challenged geeks and geekettes, I shall write a bit about the construction of this DIY-marvel. Everyone knows that in a tublet holder, you want certain features. Foremost, you want some way to cancel out the gravitational forces, to prevent your tublet from dropping into the bathtub, the toilet, the mouth cavity of a giant mutated squid (depending of course on where you chose to attach the tubholder). Then, for hostile environment factors, like steam from your bathtub or, say, the stomach bile of a giant mutated squid, you need some resistant materials. Lastly, you might want to add a waterproof keyboard (shown above), a trackball (not shown above), a yellow bathtub duck or two, and optionally a set of gay-looking candle holders which double as the perfect cable organising solution.

I for one went with the whole kit. For the materials, there are many feasible choices, from welded steel to depleted uranium or layered carbon fiber, but I went with the most flexible, lightweight, yet most durable material known to man: The back plate of an Ikea shelf.

To prevent that from consuming moist from the wall or air, I coated it in space age materials (no, not Teflon, I mean new age space age: aluminium tape). Apart from keeping out moisture, this also has the added effect of cooling the back side of my tublet very effectively (not that its needed, but its a nice bonus). The sides are made from wooden sticks (formerly the dividers in my bathtub-incompatible Magic The Cathering card organiser), and the front is whitish Ikea plate lined with bits of black electric tape, because I didn't want people to confuse my tub holder with original Apple equipment.

This is all stickied together by liberal use of a glue gun (seriously, go wild with the glue because it does not stick quite as well to Aluminium tape as it does to, say, hands, clothes, or small domestic animals), and then bolted onto the wall of the bathroom / giant squid tank with front and back steel disks and one screw.

A note on the screw: You are a smart man if you find the center of gravity of the entire assembly by balancing it on your finger, and put the screw into that spot. You are an even smarter man (and smarter than I am, in fact), if you realize beforehand that this spot lies on the exact axis onto which the manufacturer has built the integrated backwards-facing webcam, making tublet insertion into the tub holder needlessly difficult.

Also important is to carve out slots for cooling (don't cover the small fan outlet), and leave access options to the side controls (power, volume etc.) that make those accessible to any normal sized finger or tentacle.

Assuming you followed all my written and unwritten and unspoken instructions, your tublet holder should be as sturdy as Kruppstahl (if made by Ikea) and look roughly like this:

Pictured: part of Columbia's heat shield. Also, the world's crappiest mirror.

And thats it really. You and your loved ones (or giant squids) may now insert the tublet PC, and from now on enjoy TV shows, movies and Jagged Alliance 2 (with fan mod) from the comfort of your bathtub.

It has cowboyism in space, AND can be watched in the tub? What idiot cancelled this show??

In fact, to prove a point, I am writing this entire blog post from my bathtub. Sure, I may look wrinkled like I am 120 years old right now, but I bet you are not reading this in your tub, are you not? ARE YOU NOT????

(p.s. if you are, contact me at once to work out a licensing deal on my prior art ...)

So, to wrap this up, lets have a little Tublet holder Q&A for prospective tublet builders. All questions of course are from real people from my product design focus group, which I totally have not made up.

Q: I like to read the New York Times online in my bathtub before heading out to my day job at Wall Street. The question is, will it pivot?

A: I don't know. Why don't you pivot, that would achieve the result, not?

Q: Seriously, will it pivot?

A: Yes. If you use one screw and a proper wall mount, it will pivot just fine. If you use more than one screw in the assembly, the outlook is somewhat more confined (in other words: It will still pivot, but only if you are the Incredible Hulk).

Q: What are the costs of building such a wonderful, highly practical tub holder?

A: The exact costs are 1,99 Euros, assuming you have all the other materials at hand, and manage to source some cheap aluminium tape at a local discounter for 1,99 Euros, like I did. If you don't, your mileage may vary. If you have to purchase the aluminium tape from a proper DIY shop, the total building price for the unit might be in the range of one to two fantastillion Euros.

Q: At the specific weight of the mid-european Ikea shelf back plate, and a surface area of the reca W500 tublet, plus give or take 2 micrometer on average for the layer of aluminium tape, wouldn't rolled aluminium be superior?

A: Did you not listen at all? This is my design, and its perfect. I really can't be expected to explain why this composition of materials is mathematically superior to every other possible combination. What is this, amateur hour??

Q: Using electric devices near the tub, isn't that dangerous?

A: Not really. The tublet PC does away with hard disks in favour of solid state drives, which eliminates the holes to level out air pressure commonly found in hard disks. Hence, it should be fairly resistant to moisture. Also, the power cable on the low voltage side of the power brick carries low charge, and has an extra cable holder in my setup (the grey clip on the wall). Overall, the Internet agrees that using even notebooks next to the tub carries no fatal risks, except of course for the notebook itself. You must also surely know that the Internet is never wrong.

Q: You keep mentioning the reca W500 tublet. I have never heard of this company. What brand is this?

A: I dunno, thats just what it says on the device, see pictures. I should maybe also mention that, this being a tublet, I always use it upside down, because the USB slots are otherwise at the bottom, which is plain silly.

Q: Are you really posting this from your bathtub?

A: Yes.

Q: Really? Isn't that kinda creepy?

A: Yes and no. Also, if this is the most creepy thing you have heard or seen today on the internet, you are doing it wrong. If you are really disturbed by this, then here, have a cute picture of one of my cats sitting next to a plastic ferret:

Before the glue gun accident

Q: You are such a genius! I want to marry you and fund a world-wide tublet holder manufacturing empire with the millions from the inheritance, and also have your children once I take a break with my modeling career.

A: Maam, that is not a question!

Okay, on to more important things. Among the pictures I loaded onto my tublet from my phone were not only those of my tublet holder, but also other pictures I made over the last few days. So I might as well post them, because they are either hilarious, or outrageous, but in any case they are somethingorotherous.

Lets start with a picture I took with one of my great personal heroes in mind, Mr. Jeremy "Powerrrrrr!" Clarkson of Top Gear fame. He is taking some flak right now because he said some people should be shot (ow, c'mon already, its not like he actually shot them ... wait, he didn't shoot them, did he?). But this would surely make him smile. In a toy shop, I photographed this:

Pictured: The best gar - IN THE WORLD!

What this is, it's no less than the superior car! I always thought my car was nice, being a Cabriolet, a sporty Roadster, a city car and a transporter van all at once:

Ikea Cargo Challenge 2012, Codename: Operation Stig/Kolon
(Objective: Transport bar chair "Stig" and floor protection mat "Kolon")

But what the crafty Chinese have designed is truly the future of the car (or "gar", as they spell it in one spot on the packaging). Lets look at the properties of this, all from studying the box:

It is a high-performance, cross country, high speed superior power car that is also a tank. Also, it can do Somersaults and is battery operated, which must mean its some sort of EV. It is no wonder that the european car industry is doomed - when did they last come up with the idea of bolting four guns to a cross-country racecar?

Yes, and I know we are rather car heavy on this programe, but fret not, because right next to this toy for boys (and girls with short haircuts) there was also a classical girl toy. I took a picture of it next to the superior gar:

Right: automotive future. Left: Eminem

What girl (or boy) would not want a white trash rapper action figure, complete with goat fur coat, scorpio-bee chest drawing,

trousers made out of recycled 1970s wallpaper

Oh, btw, talk about action figures: It's not just the local chinajunk outlet, but "respectable" shops stock fucked-up action figures, too (also made in Shenzen, the only difference being the doubled price and absence of complimentary trashcan):

So, Ladies and Gentlemen and fellow geeks, I ask you: I know the Highlander. But what exactly is a Skylander? Is that like a very big bird? Was Superman a Skylander? Are "Single-Character"-Figures like superheroes without the cool, second identity? Was Superman maybe even the quintessential first Stealth Elf?

Was Superman the quintessential first Stealth Elf?

All this will sadly probably never be answered in my lifetime, unless the LHC craps out a few god particles and a Stealth Elf. And on this depressing thought, I shall close. But wait, one more picture. Here, fellow readers, is the greatest picture of them all. Its a picture of a man. And chances are, you don't know him, and never will. And you probably won't understand why this is here, and I probably can't be arsed to tell you. So, with the unsolvable mysteries of life once more laid out right in front of us, I shall release you back into the weird world that we call "real life" with this:

Stealth Elf?

After waterworld II (aka the second flooding of my apartment) finally closed shop, I have moved back in and await the next tidal wave of mud-watery goodness.

But being the greatest optimist of the milky way (and possibly of the entire universe),

I spent the last two and a half hours stroking up and down my pro-set.

In the Forgotten Realm of Unspeakable Stench (aka the cleaning product cabinet), I found a magic tonic to aid in my quest.

I will use the sink cleaning agent for brushing my teeth, because it just tastes better.

My kitchen now feels to the touch as if it had been the set for the ten day marathon filming of an entire series of casting-heavy japanese bukkake/gang bang porn.

Before we get to todays business, lets clean up a common missconception. The term 'artistic license' does not mean that you need to have a license by Disney or somesuch to be an artist (well, to be a commercial artist however, these days, it almost seems you do). But it can mean that, in telling his true story on the interwebs, the writer (and that would be me) emphacises certain bits, cuts out others, and sometimes even *gasp* exaggerates. Think of it as a mild variety of Fox News (mild, because their act is not taking artistic license but outright lying).

See, some weeks ago, full of christmas spirit, I said, among other things, I'd have wished from Santa for my alleged bio-mom to break her arm. Then I was informed by a valued reader who will, just like anyone else mentioned on here, stay of course anonymous (with the exception of mom - we'll see about that anonymity when someone opens my last will) that this is not a nice thing. And right he is (but then, he doesn't know my mom, and never will, since the UN has forbidden it). But I see his point.

I thought long and hard about redacting that bit, since it seemed to make some people uncomfortable, but that would have lowered the entertainment value of the first part of the article below the quality boundary, and the second part was already utter crap anyway, so that was a no-go (plus, my journalistic integrity dicates that I don't change any article after the fact - except of course where I need to correct the horrid spelling, said something that makes me look stupid, or need to cover up a conspiracy of some sort).

So instead, I do what every good online publisher (and those paid by word count) do: Write this clarification. Also, this way I can point future readers to it, and tell them to read my entire collected works first, just like a cigar smoking TV book critic in a tweed jacket.

So, this first forces me to whip out the arrows of logic +1 from my literaric quiver for the happy-armbreaking-christmas bit. If life was exactly reminiscent of what I write, I would have wished for that baseball bat already in the 19 (plus 0.75) years while I was forced, by social context, to live in my parents house.

Instead, I wished for an electric piano. And I did not once try to wire the piano keys to the mains and get bio-mom to play me a good night song. Oh, and what happened to my beloved e-piano? Well, about one year after my grandparents had bought it for me (for about 200 bucks - expensive presents had to come from people other than my parents, its a family tradition of sorts), my parents gave it away to a relative. For 20 bucks. Without ever asking my permission. To a relative who probably immediately but it on 1980-s Ebay. And why? Because my parents said they thought 'I wasnt really using the piano enough'. Thats like selling Apple Corp. to some random passer-by for the symbolic $1 because 'Steve doesn't seem to be using it much right now'!

Plus, I merely adapted by that point! Because quite the contrary of me "not using it enough" was the argument when, years earlier, they forbid me to play the toy drums they gave me for my fifth birthday in (or near) the house. For some weeks I was known as the 'weird kid who lugs a kiddie drumset to his friend's house down the street'.

Seriously, in hindsight I think my parents were actually rather cunningly disguised commies. Everything I had was actually owned by the people. And the people, well, that sure wasn't me.

Interrestingly, brokearmgate did not seem to be a problem for people who don't know me personally, cause they usually don't give a flying fuck. It also doesn't seem to be much of a problem for people who know me long enough to really appreciate the weirdness of me (which means knowing me at least 20 years, or roughly 720 years, if my current theory that I am actually the last, long-lost highlander turns out to be correct). Also, not a problem it seems to people who personally know the mothership in question (makes you wonder why that is ...).

Proof? One of the people who know me very well and reads HP invited me to his wedding. That was after the arm-story broke (hehe ... broke ...). Though I will admit, I am not sure if he reads HP regularily without me forcing him to, and I am so intrigued by the question that I herewith offer one huge free beer at one of our next occasions we meet to him (he knows who he is) if he proves he reads this. By sending me an email with the subject line 'oh ffs, I read your damn blog' by the end of next week.

Oh, by the way, totally unrelated: Huge beers are free for guests at weddings, right?

And my mom, involountary subject matter itself, even loaned me her car some days ago when mine was wrecked by the imbeciles of the Cologne city council, by proxy. Because we have dislike, but usually have no open war, much like Iran and the umer'cans. And, a bit like Iran for Fox News, her exploits make a great plot vehicle.

To tell the car bit in full, she did loan me her car but probably just in an attempt to kill me, since the tires ran on a mere half the required pressure, and she tried to prohibit me from fixing that since she didn't see anything wrong with that. But she's hibernating in Spain, and her arms aren't that freakishly long yet (but kudos for the cunning plan, she never goes faster than 50 in the car while I need to take it to the famous German highways).

On the subject oh highways, lets use that to look further at what artistic license means. If I say "everyone who drives in the outmost lane of the highway really slow should be stopped by the police and be made to eat their rooflining eaten", that is based on a fact. But my real-world self might have a much more liberal, much less barbaric view, which becomes clear when you consider the second part of the actual statement: '... but I think first offenders should have their roof lining cut up into easily digestigle chunks and be served with a variety of healthy side-dishes'.

Or if, for example, if I were to say "I fully support global extinction", that, too, is part of a true statement where the second part is '... of all mosquitoes because I really fucking hate them'. See, less insane already. And if you think about it, its a lot less hypocritical than anyone with one of those fancy jesus fishes on their car. Because the subheading of that symbol should be 'I fully support global apocalypse'.

Oh, and artistic license is all for the sake of great art and social service, of course, like when Jim Henson shows the Count on Sesame Street as being unable to tell the letters of the alphabet beyond 'C' because he (Henson) wanted to teach kids how important school is. While of course in the real world he knew well that the rat brain, which Jim burrowed deep inside the weirly-shaped foam skull, knew all the letters up to 'G' when he brought the creepy purple vampiric abomination to live with electric jolts.

But now, enough with that and on with blog business. Its not much, but its groundbreaking and will at least get me the nobel price in biology (no, not for experiments performed on self, you dirty, dirty minded but much valued Humanprototype reader).

But lets start with asking: 'Why are there so little news? Is your live so boring?'. Well yes, but its mostly because I am really quite sick for some time now. Lets just say if I were at ITV/RTL's 'I'm a celebrity, get me out of here' and they served me some of those really slimy Australian slime snails of sliminess to eat, the snails would demand to be put to their end in a much less slimy environment instead. But its a blessing really: People these days pay buttloads of cash to go on space travels, while I recently, by adding an old Star Trek episode to the mix, got to experience both the environments of Mercury and Pluto from the comforts of my own bed.

Its only fair. While I would try to extinguish a few trillion mosquitoes if I had my say, a few trillion small organisms of a different kind are at this time trying to extinguish me - karmic balance fine at work.

And the cat is sickly, too. Sneezing and all, like a sympathy pregnancy disguised as a cold. But even without the sneezing, I could tell because it doesn't eat well and doesn't lick itself much. Which made me think: Cats are incredibly nimble, like they have a backbone made out of nothing but the jelly-like material currently filling up my lungs. If you ever observed a dog for a while and listened to the whining of a cat ready for a third date, you can't help but wonder how cats, at least some cats, get anything done and don't just lick their own private parts all day long (for the record, that is an actual possibility, the medical term for it is autofellatio, and its part of the reason why the circus artists who can bend their body like a snake are almost as creepy as clowns). And then the ingenuity of evolution dawned on me: This is the real reason that cats have really, really scratchy tongues. Evolution is hilariously cruel.

So, with most of my patchwork family ill, and me unable to go outside, or properly speak, or eat, or silence the funny sounds of that squirrel which somehow seems to have gotten logged in somewhere inside my lungs, or unable to whack myself over the head with my baseball bat (because I HAVE no baseball bat, remember?), I have accidentially proven that evolution is right. Which way is Oslo again?

n.b. yes I know, you can't ultimately prove evolution right or wrong (thats the whole bloody point of any science!). Also, it would need way more experimenting, and a cat tongue laminator is probably out of the question. Anyone seen the butter?

Christmas time. Its usually like an anually returning apocalypse, albeit without the zombies. And its usually especially tough when you're somewhere in the same area as your family, which I am, because since the last rambling I produced on this website, my appartment has been flooded again, twice (you have to hang tight, I can't talk about this in detail before the court case concludes, which, according to the predictions, will be arround 2051. But there will be a feature film, a theatre adaption and at least two books about this, and lots of hilarity). So I have been evicted from my place and had to stay in the appartment in my grandma's house again over christmas. Which at times gave me the full medieval experience. Just as in any respectable castle arround the year 1200, there was at times no heating system, no hot water (which might be good, because that means the unmaintained boilers won't explode this year) and only volume-limited UMTS internet.

Makes you wonder how medieval castles communicated, without proper broadband or somesuch.

At least nobody emotionally guilted me into visiting my mother for christmas this year. Yes, she called me over the phone to ask if I'd come by for christmas, in response to which I began a manic laughter into the telephone. As always, my mother cut me off on the phone, when she quite rudely put the receiver down only about two minutes into my laughing spree, I was not even half done. What a rude person!

Luckily there was a truce on the presents front, so I didn't have to consider what gifts to give, or whether the gift I get from my mom has to be recycled in the blue or the yellow recycle bin. But then, to my utter amazement, I did get a christmas present from my mom after all, and I am so happy to report that this has been the best and most unexpected present I ever received. I'm still crying a bit being so happy about this wonderful, considerate present that I received by means of a phone call: While hanging up her horrible christmas decoration, my mother had fallen off the jiggly kitchen chair and broken her arm! Plaster all the way. Oh, I could truly feel the spirit of christmas in the air that day!

Sadly, when she visited some time after christmas, she didn't let me scribble my signature 'comic dude throwing up a giganormous lake of puke with fish bones in it' drawings on the plaster, and was not amused either when I greeted her with a mock interview: Shoving a bottle held like a microphone unter her nose and opening with the question: "Evel Knievel, greatest stuntman of all times - how do you feel about your latest, slightly gone wrong but still spectacular stunt?"

I guess being a blogger, which is kinda like a newspaper reporter, I must report that the response was a bit rude, but should probably be summarized best as 'No comment'.

Sadly, nice gifts must be offset by crummy gifts, that is one of the rules of christmas. The crummy gift again involved my mother: Someone had gifted her his old Dell notebook so she could finally 'go online'. So some days ago, she dropped off a notebook at my temporary place, together with an USB UMTS stick and the noteworthy words: "The guy who gave this to me says that something is wrong with it but he thinks that

Something needs to be taken from this internet thing and then it can be made to work

Now I told you before that I am sure that my mother has brain damage and only about half a working brain left, and by working I mean working in the same sense that me holding in my farts is working against global warming. Frankly, she is one of those people who would be better off if you gave them a decimal childrens abacus and a set of crayons, and tell her that she doesn't need a computer because she kinda is one, just a veeeeeery slow one.

Also, the good thing about the crayons is, it wouldn't give her cancer. Because my mother is certain that WLAN and mobile phones and every form of electromagnetic waves gives everyone cancer. She's also certain that a silver spoon turns her homeopathic 'medicine' into poison, that waering a worn sock as a scarf cures a cold, and a bunch of other arcane things for which people would have burned on the stake not 400 years ago. Its a good thing she doesn't realize that the UMTS stick in her new (old) notebook uses the mobile phone network, instead she seems to think that the internet 'enters' her computer not by means of airwaves but more by something closely associated to magic.

She seems to think that the internet 'enters' her computer not by means of airwaves but more by something closely associated to magic.

So in a pointless display of family ties, I took a look at the notebook she left at my place. Could have been worse, I thought: At least it was a somewhat decent Dell with an original Windows XP Pro on it - I had feared it might be Windows ME or somesuch. So I installed the UMTS software, invoked the magic rituals, and connected to the internet. Which led me to discover just what the man meant by 'getting something off the internet' because both IE and Firefox had so many garbage add-ins installed that they both crashed on startup. So I wiped Firefox off the disk, fixed and then hid IE, installed the mighty Opera (if I continue indoctrinating all totally noob users I meet, like my mom, to Opera, it'll have a huge market share in no time), and discovered that of course nobody had installed any security or virus scanner updates in about four years, so the next three hours I did that. That took so long, in fact, that I kept installing updates even during the car ride to my mothers home to drop the notebook off (hey, at least I wasn't texting while driving).

Dropping the thing off and trying to explain a few basics was just as I expected. There were all the classics, like "I can't move the mouse more to the left anymore because I have reached the end of the table", and new ones I had not heard in several years of IT retailing, like "are there any buttons that I should not press because they do something bad?".

I told her to never, under no circumstances, hit the letter 'o' on the keyboard

I showed her some basics, how to go to a page with the browser, how to use Google, and how to search on words in Google from a webpage directly from within Opera by marking it and right-clicking and selecting 'search with Google'. I was for once lucky that safe search was on, when she decided to google the word 'caviar' from a recipe she was looking at with google images as a training excercise (if you don't understand this, spend more time on the internet without safe search). I wonder how long it will actually take her to discover what I really did on the internet with my 56K modem between the ages 15 and 17, when she still believes I was discussing Star Trek with other nerds or something. Because we all know what the internet is for (I would link this on youtube, but each and every one of them has been blocked from Germany because it says it contains copyrights from Sony Music, and youtube is currently in the process of commiting commercial suicide).

I patiently explained that Wikipedia is not the same as Wikileaks. I explained how to shut down the computer, five times. When time to shutdown came, she had no clue what to do, so I had to tell her to open the start menu, tell her that its bottom left, tell her to left click it with the mouse, and when I thought she'd now be able to read the items and spot the 'shut down the computer' item at the bottom, she proceeded to read out aloud items like 'settings', asking me whether that is maybe used to shut down the computer. I can't say this any more nicely than this: At this moment, I realized again that we are in fact very close descendants of monkeys, but that even a lobotomized chimp from generations of monkey inbreeding will sooner pick up how to operate Windows XP.

I know I shouldn't have invested any time in teaching my mother to operate a computer, especially one with an OS that has no security support anymore (I know ...), and also I don't care if my mother gets ripped off with invoices for entering her name and address into some web form (which she will), or has her machine taken over by a trojan (which she will) or replies to loads of spam (which she will, if she ever figures out how to work email). But I needed to make sure she knows how the internet works, because someone needs to send the money to my dear friend, the Reverend Mbeki Mumbutu

someone needs to send the money to my dear friend, the Reverend Mbeki Mumbutu

So, what other boredoms to report on? Thanks to global warming, christmas time also means we got a proper, early winter, with lots of snow, as compared to the snow-free, warm winters back in the days when we had no global warming. Along with the newfangled breakdown of trains, airplanes, and most of the road traffic (I can't understand this, driving on snow and ice is as much fun as it gets - what other time of year can you drift arround corners without fully ruining your tires??). I laugh at you pathetic people in your expensive SUVs but without any driving talent, stuck in the snow behind me in your X5 Beamers. Who needs SUVs anyway? Sure, my car is mostly made from cheap plastics but it has the most awesome adaptive winter armor system. Yes, thats right - when the roads get bad and the risk of a road accident rises, my nice sport convertible naturally and automatically transforms into a road-legal tank made from fucking ice itself! Yes, thats right, I had a 4 cm ice armor all arround my car, not unlike a Leopard tank with its armor plates. Sadly also all across the windows, which, admittedly, might be a slight design flaw in the system.

Next in line, New Years Eve. Ah, the major night for parties, drinking, general mingling. Of course not for me, having been abused by the grumpy fuck at the dentist emergency services on the night of Dec 31st, and being placed under a strict 'no alcohol' regime. Good thing I went to the dentist 19 times in three years between 2007 and early 2010, or else the bloody fuck wouldn't have been able to get his trainees sufficient training time on a live person instead of a corpse, or afford that shiny Audi R8. But what an unrealistic idea of me that this would keep me free of major fuckups on holidays at least for a few months. So, pumped up with really quite unrealistic amounts of Ibuprofen and Aspirin and quite fucked up, I eventually decided to spend New Years Eve at home.

When my grandmother, who lives upstairs from my temporary apartment, asked "why don't you come up and watch TV and the fireworks? What should you be sitting alone downstairs for?" I mistook that for a non-hypothetical question. I guess "wildly masturbating" wasn't the answer she expected

I guess "wildly masturbating" wasn't the answer she expected

At least I was glad we didn't have more weird company. For example, there's this woman who brings lunch to my grandmother in a car given to her by the local hospital (the car is a new one this year, I am certain she totalled the other one). This woman has a horrible high-pitched voice (like Peggy Bundy on helium) and therefore I only refer to her as 'Frau Zombie', based on a German radio skit. I am certain she overheard me call her that at least once. Frau Zombie is rather well fed, zeroing in at probably arround 5000 pounds (and it doesn't matter if metric or imperial pounds, you get the idea). Each and every time she brings the food (which amazes me, i.e. that some food actually arrives, they probably pack her car with five times the delivery amount to ensure that some is left at the end of the trip), I am amazed at the quality of the woodworks from before WW2, because the staircase still holds - they just don't make staircases like this anymore these days. So when my grandmother told the food woman during one delivery to 'not move to close to the house because there was the danger of ice falling from the roof' I was quite afraid that woman would make the mental connection and figure out that to leave the house, she would have to move close to it at some point - infinitely close even, to be mathematically precise. Which would inevitably mean she'd spent the winter. Which would have caused my xmas/NYE food supplies to be eaten within about eight minutes. Followed, quite probably, by myself. Happily, she didn't seem to think much of mathematic or logic and waltzed her giganormous butt out the door on that day, too. Phew, saved again.

So I had to watch New Years Eve television. Which is, by all accounts, horrible. Bizarely (quote Wikipedia), in Germany and Scandinavia, each and every year they show a sketch called 'Dinner for one', written in the 1920s, several times during the New Years evening, single-take black and white. Its acted out by an otherwise remarkably unknown comedian whose otherwise greatest success was to act as the plumber in a show whose title once got mentioned in a Beatles song. Its like watching a sad, sad version of a badly acted Monty Python skit, for a million times, with your eyes pinned open like in Clockwork Orange, in hell. Its the most frequently repeated TV programme ever (according to the Guinness Book of Records, 1988-1995 eds.) and scientificially proven to be worse than waterboarding (humanprototype.com, 2011 ed.).

'Dinner for one' is scientificially proven to be worse than waterboarding

After the lame fireworks, I was still so wired on meds and no alcohol that I went to sit down and play through the entire game of 'Alpha Protocol' in one session! Thats right, 17 hours of power gaming with just one potty break, which was actually the only time I took my eyes off the screen. That was, I admit, a slight bit creepy. After that I was still wired so I considered a second playthrough but I didn't because I was actually quite sure I'd get a proper brain stroke if I did, and my left shoulder was hurting, which is nature's way to tell you that you WASD'ed too much. Unless its your right shoulder, thats nature's way of telling you to either buy a new, 120 bucks, ergonomical mouse with gold-plated USB plug. Or, of course, to cut back on the wanking.

A word on 'Alpha Protocol', since I meditated over that for quite some time (no worries, I am not going to do a game review here, for that you should see the video by the Zero Punctuation dude, its totally spot-on and totally hilarious). But its amazing how much of a clone of Dragon Age Alpha Protocol is in some regards ('Origin'-like tutorial, three settings with missions, and a final location to string the ends together). But not unlike the notebook of my mother, it partly operates on magic to close some of the gaping plotholes. For example, in the end the main character has himself captured (cause he has no idea where the base he wants to infiltrate is), fair enough. But when he gets strapped on a table in med bay, and has to escape, not only do the straps magically disappear, but also his captors left all his equipment (huge armored vest, assault rifle and all) in a tiny bag right next to his table! I know from recent dentist experience that they even keep the syringes further away for fear I could grab one and ram them into the dentists leg! And then out of a gazillion possible people, the assassin of the president of Taiwan is the same hot redhead photo journalist that your alter ego met on an airplane. Seriously, who writes these plots? Suspension of disbelief is just not a skill I can level high enough for this.

Unlike Dragon Age, Alpha Protocol however is deeply conformist. Yes, it draws a scenario of the US creating false flag operations and bombing for example a museum in Europe to create business for their weapon companies. But thats nothing really noteworthy. Its conformist in a way it depicts character relations. Because, like any Bioware game, it does have character relations and romance options. However, where Dragon Age or Mass Effect gives you a cutscene depicting the romancing in short and entirely harmless cuts (at most *gasp* part of a characters ass was seen, omg someone think of the children!), Alpha Protocol just skips over that entirely. Even the 'Mission Summary' states that Agent Thorton spent the night at the hotel room of said hot redhead photo journalist, but its not known what has happened. Seriously, I actually think they played board games all night. Especially with the final cutscene which leaves me none the wiser. Geez - thanks, America!

So the next time I go into an Ibuprofen-overdose-induced gaming frenzy, I will attempt to play through Dragon Age in one session. Though I suspect I'll need more than one potty break for that. I need to replay that before starting the Add-On (I didn't even want to buy it, but I so desperately wanted to get rid of my Nintendo Wii that I traded it for the Add-On and some other stuff). My character in the first playthrough was a Rogue, but as any role player knows two Rogues in a party is a waste, and I have to have Leliana in the party. Not because she's any good, and she's dumb as bread and a religious nutter (interresting side note, beforementioned Evel Knievel in the end was one, too), but of course because she's so wonderfully bisexual and Bioware has no problem with that, or with American talk show hosts having problems with that, respectively. Even more fun are the Bioware forums, I remember a thread with 20% people (Americans, mostly) who were totally disgusted at the romance options in Dragon Age, plus 10% trolls. An ideal mix, total flamefest. Good fun.

So, prediction for 2011: The Alpha Protocol people make software for an Apple. Bioware won't. And thats damn good.

n.b. Alpha Protocol is still a decent game. Eventough the levels are about as small as my temporary living spaces.

n.n.b. there is mold (that stuff that appears on the walls in a bathroom for people who aren't great on that 'hygiene' thing) which can recreate an efficient version of the subway system of Tokyo and 38 surrounding towns. No way my mom will ever do that. So, technically, mold is smarter than mom.

n.n.n.b. It is generally accepted that the apocalypse will have zombies. Those who say otherwise will have their brains eaten first.

Recently I discovered that I own a huge bunch of IKEA(tm) coathangers. As I sometimes talk to myself, I said: "Oh my. I have a billion coathangers!". Thought about this while sitting on the loo. Had some silly ideas. Absolutely silly. But I think it would make a rather good Monthy Python skit. Read with British voices in your head, one serious, one silly. You may pre-order tickets to my stage show.

Area man posesses worlds largest supply of plastic IKEA coathangers

Interviewer: Mr. Area Man, you entered the famous Guiness Book of World Records this year by being the first man to become what Time Magazine, on its recent title page, called "The Coathanger Billionaire". Would you explain to our readers when you first thought of pursuing this amazing feat?

Area Man: Oh sure. Delighted, really. Well, at first, you see, I bought some coathangers. Every time I went to IKEA, for a shelf, or one of these rather charming plastic wall clocks, I purchased a batch of coathangers. To hang stuff on. Shirts. Pullovers. Sometimes the odd sock. You know, stuff. Apparel, mostly.

Interviewer: Mostly?

Area Man: Yes yes. One slow afternoon in '98, I think it was in the late summer - or was it maybe early autumn? - well anyway I vividly remember using one to hang my sneakers. And a week after that, I think I remember putting up a somewhat dead squirrel.

Interviewer: Errrm ... right. So, most people would still consider this ... shall we say, still within the social norm I guess? (begins to look arrround nervously and scans the exit). So, erm, when did you decide you wanted to own more coathangers than anyone, alive or deceased, before you?

Area Man: At some point I decided that I would change my habbits to storing my shirts in a drawer. So I was left with a very large amount of coathangers. In several colours even. See, at some point I had this really very exciting system worked out. Blue hangers for shirts, reds for pullovers, and so on. I am not saying this is rocket science, no, but if you think about it, its a rather interresting concept thats not easy to grasp in its full complexity. See, you start by doing an inventory of all your things. If you would happen to be, say, in the posession of an above-average amount of blue (or bluish) shirts, you might need to determine the exact break-even point for using the red coathangers for the shirts, even if you had an amount of pullovers being numerically superiorly suited for the application of red hangers. You know, for optical contrast. Its rocket science.

Interviewer: I think I ... understand. (glances at wristwatch). So, getting back to the original question ...

Area Man: Oh, do you know they tick?

Interviewer: The coathangers tick?

Area Man: No! Of course not. Thats absolutely silly. Those charming wall clocks from IKEA. Can't sleep with one of those in the same room.

Interviewer: ... about those coathangers:

Area Man: Ah. Yes. Coathangers. Fascinating subject matter. So I was left with this large quantity of unused coathangers. Red, Blue, Greyish. White even. No yellow. Never understood why IKEA makes no yellows. So then I thought: What could you do with this big pile of coathangers? For a long time I considered building a scale model of the Eifel Tower with them. Rather large scale, really. 36 to 1 scale, in fact.

Interviewer: Surely you mean 1 to 36 ? (rolls eyes)

Area Man (ignoring the last statement): But to my utter disappointment, I had to discover that nobody wanted to walk up an eleven kilometer tall Eiffel tower made from coathangers. Can you believe this sillyness? People were almost panicked by the idea. Told me I am mad. MAAAD! Didn't like it, they did. But by that time, it must have been winter, I think, or maybe it was summer, could have been, well anyway, it was a rather cold winter at that, and I had already bought all the coathangers in the entire area.

Interviewer (bored looking, sending SMS from his cellphone): And ...

Area Man: ... so I called up Ingvar, and asked how many coat hangers he could make me. From the headquarters, you know. And then the week we had the first talks in Sweden. Mikael was there, and Ingvar of course. At first they were delighted! Later, they realized they needed to build a couple factories to produce the billion coathangers I ordered. But they were great sports, especially Ingvar. Good guy. Bought a part of Älmhult and leveled every house to build the fifth coathanger factory that year.

Interviewer (now somewhat interrested again): And then they truly made for you one billion coathangers?

Area Man: Yes yes. One billion. Took the oil supplies of a medium-sized middle-eastern country to make.

Interviewer: But how did you pay for all those coathangers?

Area Man: Pay? I didn't.

Interviewer: You ... didn't. You didn't pay for one billion coathangers? (begins to shake head again)

Area Man: Ah, you see, six of the coathangers are not right. Production misshaps, you know? Like, one for example, it lacks the required curvature in the upper section. Not good. Doesn't hang well. Another is shaped like a pretzel. So, I said: I will not pay before they send me my six good coathangers. I demand this. I need a billion proper coathangers, but six of them are no good. They say they closed the factories. Lost the plans. Recently, Ingvar doesn't even call me anymore. They wanted to "mend" the malformed coathangers instead. But I will have none of this "mending" business, no! I will not even open the letter with the invoice before they (shakes fist) make this well. In fact, the invoice is still in the mailbox (points in the general direction of the mailbox, out of which is sticking an envelope and a suspiciously crumpled and somewhat ripped-up IKEA catalog).

Interviewer: So, technically, you are the owner of 999.999.994 coat hangers?

Area Man: (face drops visibly): [...]

Interviewer: [...]

Area Man: Did you know my pile of coathangers can be seen from the moon?

Interviewer: So, technically, you are the owner of 999.999.994 coat hangers?

Area Man: Get. Out. Of. My. House ...! Now!

Interviewer: I thank you for this interview.