Even I’m Not That Sappy.

Handicrafts with cat fur. For people with way, way too much time on their hands. And fur. Got furballs? H/t, Robbubba. Story HERE.

I’m Just Glad They Weren’t Dyslexic…

South Korean researchers have created a glowing dog.

The dog, a beagle glows flourescent green when treated with the antibiotic doxycycline. The story is here.

Yeah, the jokes just write themselves. Go on, knock yourselves out.

With a knick-knack, clone a dog that glows, this old man will wok at home.

Be sure to tip your waitress.

He Got Better…Again

A man was declared dead, was taken to a private morgue, and woke up screaming. Morgue personnel were afraid to let him out, because they thought he was a ghost. The story is HERE.

Yanno, the jokes just write themselves. Personally, I’m worried about a private morgue. I mean, I’m libertarian and all, but that’s a bit much. I’m also glad that the coolers I work around have sliding drawers that LOCK.

Not A Good Idea

Cocaine, cut with a powerful veterinary medicine, is causing skin necrosis. (Of course, there is no real difference between veterinary medicines and people medicines, other than price and you can use things on animals that you can’t use on humans. But, really, buying drugs from a guy whose middle name is “the” is a bad idea.

So is Smoking potpourri.

It always amazes me what lengths people will go to to get high.

He Got Better

A review of the Boston Medical Examiner’s Office. Read the review HERE. Nice that he liked the accommodations, most folks don’t.

Hat tip, _heather.

Sappy Cat Blogging

Today’s sappy cat is Eddie, taken from his balcony by a hawk, but dropped shortly thereafter. He landed on his feet (and an umbrella. He’s OK) Story HERE, H/t Lili

10 Reasons Why the Guy in the Windowless Van is Less Creepy than the TSA

From Robb Allen, here.

Gods of the Copybook Headings

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

R Kipling. Seemed appropos, somehow.

Sappy Cat Blogging

The Banks of Red Roses

When I was a wee thing and easy led astray
Before that I would work I would rather sport and play
Before that I would work I would rather sport and play
Wi’ my Johnny on the banks o’ red roses

On the banks of red roses his love and he sat doon
And he took oot his fiddle for tae play his love a tune
In the middle o’ the tune, oh she sighed and she said
Oh my Johnny, lovely Johnny, dinna leave me

Oh they walked and they talked till they cam untae a cave
Where all night long her Johnny had been digging at her grave
Where all night long her Johnny had been digging at her grave
By the bonnie bonnie banks o’ red roses

Oh Johnny, lovely Johnny, oh that grave it’s no for me
Oh yes, my lovely Jeannie, that your bridal bed shall be
Oh yes, my lovely Jeannie, that your bridal bed shall be
By the bonnie bonnie banks o’ red roses

On the banks of red roses his love and he sat doon
And he took oot his fiddle for tae play his love a tune
In the middle o’ the tune, oh she sighed and she said
Oh my Johnny, lovely Johnny, dinna leave me

He’s ta’en oot his wee penknife, an’ it was lang an’ shairp
An’ he pierced it through and through the bonnie lassie’s hairt
Aye, he pierced it through and through the bonnie lassie’s hairt
And he left her lyin’ low on red roses

And as he was walkin’ hameward, his heart was filled wi’ fear
Till every face he saw, he thocht it was his dear
Till every face he saw, he thocht it was his dear
Lyin’ cold upon her bed o’ red roses

On the banks of red roses his love and he sat doon
And he took oot his fiddle for tae play his love a tune
In the middle o’ the tune, oh she sighed and she said
Oh my Johnny, lovely Johnny, dinna leave me