In the head!

Fred's blogpost about dolphins from a few days ago triggered my brain too: it made me think of what I believe to be one of the most brilliant stand-up comedians out there, although you might be more familiar with Ricky Gervais as the guy from the office. The office, not yours. Unless our blog's cybertendrils reach further than we thought: in that case, can you please say hi to Ricky?

I am aware of the fact that this blog is probably nothing more than your daily dose of dorky diversion at work - wedged between more important things to do, and this is very likely putting serious restrictions on the amount of time you are willing to spend on a blogpost - be it reading, deciphering or dropping a comment in the box - but I do recommend you to stay here for at least another 6 minutes, because the following passage is one heck of a way to kickstart your weekend with a smile across your face... Enjoy!

LinkedIn: Someecards

Today I have the pleasure of announcing the youngest brainchild of Fred and Fred’s making: LinkedIn. From now on, LinkedIn will figure as a semi-regular category of blogs in which we want to present some of our favourite Internet links. Some will be funny (or what your regular Fred considers funny), some will be serious - all in good Freddian tradition…

The first feature of LinkedIn is the truly side-splitting Someecards.com. I don’t know why but in the early days of the Internet (I’m talking late 1990s when most people got hooked up) sending e-cards used to be much more popular that nowadays. Nerry a birthday would go by without you receiving a link in your e-mail referring to some shitty bmp-picture with a corny message. Because most of the sites that provided such cards were pretty bad (some even offered teeth-grinding gifs of singing Santas or babbling bears), I eventually started browsing the web to see if there really wasn’t anything genuinely funny to be found.

And sure enough, I hit Someecards.com. The site is basically a big collection of funny cards, grouped into categories of anniversary, birthday, get well, thinking of you, and so forth. However, the cards themselves are anything but traditional. You could say their humour is like the Little Britain of e-cards, drawn in a style that will remind a Belgian audience of Humo-cartoonist Jeroom. In fact, many of these cards aren’t particularly suitable to be actually sent, although some can provide excellent material to surprise your friends or relatives. You’ll see.

As a matter of fact, I’ll show you. Since reviews of sites are pointless without having a look at the real deal, I’ve chosen twenty of my personal favourites (in no particular order) for you to check out. Enjoy!





















Someecards.com has been around for quite a while now and it’s a pity that no one seems to know them. So here’s your chance! You can follow them on Facebook and Twitter, and the site even allows you to upload your own e-card by typing a text on loads of empty pictures in their typical style. So fly, fly, my pretties, and spread your wings of comedy!

... that's the question!

In a recent article in the newspaper, I read that some people tend to believe that dolphins have quite a good notion about the meaning of 'death'. They are not the only animals showing emotions when a member of their group dies - elephants, chimps and gorilla's can also exhibit behaviour which looks like mourning - but apparently the reaction of dolphins is rather profound. At least that's what Joan Gonzalvo, a dolphin specialist working in a research institute in Milano, claims.

Somehow, this article made me think of something I have read a few years ago: together with human beings, dolphins are the only creatures that can have sex for pleasure. Now this raises at least a few questions. First of all, and most obviously: is it true? As a matter of fait divers, I couldn't care less. The answer is either yes or no. Black or white. Heads or tails.

What I find more interesting is the following question: who conjectured this, and why? Seriously, being an academic myself, I am no stranger to coming up with silly questions - or what seems like a silly question to the outer world. Has Mongolia ever won the Paralympics, for example? But the thing is that my own curiosity is usually triggered by something. Inspiration doesn't come for free - especially not when, as is often the case, it is to be found in a glass of alchol. So this leads me right back to the aforementioned question: who came up with the idea that dolphins might be the only animals having sex for pleasure, and why?

Either the Fish Porn Departement does not only have an extensive selection of cod mating classics (this is what comedians describe as a call-back) but also caters for dolphin lovers ('Flipper and the Blowhole', anyone?), or this person was engaged in sexual intercourse with a Delphinidae family member and got compliments afterwards. Which is not some sick twist of my mind, by the way. Check the following page in case that crossed yours...

The most interesting question however, is the following: how do you (dis)prove that claim? Think about it: how can you verify whether dolphins really are the only animals enjoying the act of procreation? There's only one way to do that, right? Testing all other animals.

Which, in a moment of pure insight, lead me to the obvious answer to questions 2 and 3.

The only guy that could have concluded this, was Noah.

Yups, Noah from the Bible story.

The one about his Ark.

Or, as I would call it, his Love Boat...

JLo

Okay, I’ll be honest: I feel like being a bit dramatic today. So I thought I’d do some complaining for you. Nerd-like complaining involving difficult words, sure, but still, complaining. You know, just in case your day hadn’t been annoying already, I thought I’d happily share two of my own frustrations, both concerning matters of the media.

(1) I have to admit I’m a sucker for bad TV. I liked Big Brother until it grew old (halfway the second season), I liked Idol and I still like Survivor (called Expeditie Robinson in Belgium), so yesterday I thought I’d give another show a try. This one has been around for quite a while, but I never watched it from beginning to end, and since yesterday was the first episode, now was my chance. The show is called Farmers Looking for a Wife, and recently they added or a Man to that, because they’ve had female farmers on. The show’s premise is actually not that bad: it’s a dating show for farmers, who understandably haven’t got much time for a social life. Which leads to toe-cringingly awkward situations of course… All fun and games so far, until somewhere in the latter part of the show. After a short speed date with the various candidates the farmers had to pick three and send the rest home. After each selection the camera then showed the losers’ walk of shame. Five or six women or men - understandbly not the best in either the looks or the brains department - walking back to their cars, heavily upset for being rejected and all of a sudden even more aware of the camera in their faces. Now I’m not so naive to suppose the producers of this show have the farmers’ or the suitors’ best interests at heart. I know it’s TV and I know TV doesn’t show people’s real stories, it uses people to show scripted stories. But this was TV kicking people when they’re down, and even I could taste the dirt of its boot. Is it really true that most people will only feel pity for the contenders in this scene and not hostility towards the makers of the show? Because that’s the only way a shot like that can ever work. That’s cynical.

(2) I’ve been hearing this radio ad for some Brussels university lately and it’s driving me up the walls. If I remember well, it starts off with some sounds from nature and a documentaryesque voice whispering: “We find ourselves in the habitat of the studentus Brusellus…” The rest of the ad I don’t remember because I get so f*ing worked up about studentus Brusellus! It’s pig-Latin, or, for the Flemish among you, Jommeke-Latin. Just take any word and put -us at the end and it’ll be Latin! But for crying out loud, in an ad for a school? Really? You couldn’t be bothered to ask someone with an inkling of Latin to come up with studens Bruxellensis, which isn’t quite correct, but acceptable and still recognizable? Of course, the ad is supposed to be funny, but clearly the joke is in the grotesque circularity of the scene, a scientist describes a scientist (the student) in a scientific way. A bit like when Charlie Chaplin participated in a Charlie Chaplin-lookalike contest. So for the scene to work the scientific element is crucial and has to be believable. It doesn’t have to be correct, but believable. Like when you know the starship in Star Wars doesn’t actually work, but it looks like it works. The thing is, for many people, studentus Brusellus is not believable. In comparison, none of the Latin in the Harry Potter spells is correct, but for those who do notice, they also notice it is consistent (in its errors), which makes it a kind of code. And codes appeal to our sense for secrets and mystery, which not only preserves the dramatic illusion in a movie about a wizard, but even strengthens it! So, all things considered, why be sloppy, use bad Latin and risk losing the attention of anyone who knows a little of Rome’s language? It kills the dramatic illusion of the joke… unless, of course, correct vocabulary itself is a joke to the Brussels university in question. Which I suppose it is.

I told you I was going to be a bit of a drama queen today. Primarily a Latin drama queen, it turned out. Yes, go back to the title, enjoy your Aha-Erlebnis and be amazed by my powers. Always the drama... Sigh.

2011: a space oddity

Pizza marketing wars have now officially reached a point of cosmic proportions - pardon me the pun - as Domino's Japanese branch announced its plans to open the first pizza restaurant on the moon. Just in case you have some weird synonym in mind the existence of which I am not aware of, we are talking about the celestial body rotating our planet. The moon, as we say.

It all started in 2001, when the enemies from Pizza Hut delivered a pizza to astronauts orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station (ISS). Not just any pizza of course: the creation of the world's first pizza in outer space was the product of an intense - and, let me guess, rather expensive - collaboration between Pizza Hut and Russian food scientists. A quote from the official report: "before final certification for consumption was given, the vacuum-sealed Pizza Hut pizza had to undergo rigorous stabilized thermal conditions to determine freshness-stay and life span." Sounds like someone lost the first 3496 pages of the Priority List for Global Problems Humanity is Facing.

You might still remember Domino's first counterblow, from December 2010, when they announced their plan to pay the winner of a contest ¥2.5 million (more or less €​23000) for one lousy hour of delivering pizza's. One small job for man, one giant leap for his paycheck.

Today it seems that this was only the first step towards pizza craziness: Tomohide Matsunaga, a spokesman for Domino's, revealed the company's ambition to build a pizza dome on our only natural satellite because they anticipate there will be many people living on the moon: astronauts who are working there, wealthy Dutch tourists and migrant workers distributing pizza flyers. The company added they even expect to be able to offer delivery services. Which kept me wondering to where exactly that would be? Because unless Russian scooter scientists are working on a new kind of vehicle, I wouldn't expect the delivery to be made within half an hour...

In retrospect, I regret not being a part of the Domino think-tank, as I did have a few more bright ideas for the future. Or would you call an ice-cream parlor in the Sahara, a vending machine selling short black hairpieces in China or a night shop in Pakistan a bit too far-fetched?

Ambergris

When it comes to food, some people have 'strange habits'. How else would you describe the fact that there are nutcases out there, willing to pay a shitload of money for ambergris? For those of you who are not (yet) familiar with this culinary delight, let me first ask you a simple question: how does ambergris sound to you?

French?

Erhm, let me see, Sherlock.

Yes.

Ridiculously obvious associations: plus one.

But my point here, is that the word itself already sounds delicious doesn't it? Imagine this: “ambergris shavings on a seaweed cracker floating in Chinese lily flower broth”. Sounds delicious to me. Or how about “roasted ambergris flakes in a foamy Belgian white chocolate milkshake”? Sounds even better. In case of an emergeny, I would even settle for a late-night home delivery pizza with ambergris sauce. That sounds a bit sick indeed, but once you're ready to order this you are probably too drunk to realize that anyway.

The thing is – and let's be honest, it should be the only thing you are ever willing to give the French credit for: no matter what you are planning to serve for dinner on a first date, just give it a fancy French name and you are bound to get laid. So when I first read about the endless possibilities of ambergris in the kitchen, I was already envisioning myself in hot, steamy, mind- and other spongy-matter-blowing sex scenes.

Until I found out that ambergris is basically – and I kid you not – vomit from a sperm whale. Feel free to make your own jokes about Moby Dick at this point... Vomit from a sperm whale: that means at least two words I did not want to read in combination with 'one spoonful per person'. Just in case you're still interested, let me share a few technical details with you. First of all, ambergris starts off as a white fatty substance with a strong fecal smell. This could be me being a bit picky, but anything that even remotely matches the description of bird poo, is excluded from my menu. Okay? Secondly – and this shit is really getting better – the white fatty substance is supposed to age a few years in the ocean. I assume that you're all familiar with the following experience: you open the fridge, a not too-familiar-looking jar in the back somehow grasps your attention and upon closer inspection you notice that its shelf life ended when it was still okay to wear a mullet.

A few years ago, that is.

At that point we all have the same reflex, right?

We put the jar back in the fridge.

So when I'm having a romantic stroll along a moonlit tropical beach, holding hands with a beautiful woman who just had a delicious French-sounding dinner, and I bump into a smelly white ball that looks like it has been ageing for a few years, I tend to let it be. Or push it back into the sea, at most. Under no circumstance however, would I feel inclined to take it home with me and start experimenting with it in the kitchen. Especially not when you know that, as a result of the ageing process, the precursor of ambergris acquires its typical crusty, waxy texture and animalic odour. Not very surprisingly, of course. I grew up with my grandparents, so this is firsthand knowledge: everything becomes waxy and crusty when you leave it unattended for a few years.

Oddly enough – as in 'how the fuck is this possible' – ambergris can cost around thousands of dollars for a small lump. If these sperm whales weren't the big monstrously huge animals they are, the first thing I'd buy in the morning is a fish tank. A fish tank, and a sperm whale. And even if I would have to feed it rare cask strength single malt whisky's: I would not stop before owning an intoxicated sperm whale.

- “Yes Moby, daddy loves you.”

Petting it, all day long.

- “And now puke, goddamnit. PUKE!”

Thousands of dollars!

For a lump of vomit from a big fat mammal with a head that takes up one third of its total body length: sounds like a few Americans may consider a fruitful job change. You can only hope that these ambergris-buying flapheads have the decency to send a postcard to the undernourished part of our world, next time they go to the Bahamas to buy their salty balls.

“Dear friend,

I've just spent your country's Gross National Product on a bucket of exclusive French-sounding stuff.

PS: enjoy your weekly bowl of rice!”

I guess this is the point where the posh ambergris-lovers start raising their subtly trimmed eyebrows.

- Rice? William, what is rice?

- Well, Asquith, do you remember that city trip in Tokyo, when you wanted to try sushi?

- Of course I do!

- Well, it's the white stuff underneath the fish.

- Aha, you mean 'le riz'?

Perfect strangers

Maybe you're too young, dear reader. Rest assured: considering the average lifetime of Belgians, and ignoring the fact that we are among the even happier few - well fed and employed - that may last longer than average, Freds are bound soon to hit the mid of life; blondes, boats and bottles: here we come.

Silently creeping to old age has the advantage of making the statement 'in our days' more valid. Happily fitting that Statler and Waldorfian complaintive is this: earlier this week, I stumbled upon the first episode of the sitcom 'Perfect Strangers': Balki Bartokomous, professional (mind you) sheepherder (sic) from the Greek island of Mypos, pops up the very day Larry Appleton (can you say "cousin Larry" with your best Hellenic accent?) moved out of his busy parental household to live on his own in the town that's Frank Sinatra's kind and home of the Bulls. Corny? Yes, with a capital maize. Funny? Not up to "modern standards", perhaps, but certainly amusing in the splendid overacting of Bronson Pinchot. I particularly recall an episode where Balki gets hit in the head and thinks he's Elvis: "Who is this Balki Bartokomoose". Perhaps you had to have been there.

So what brought me to mention the show, apart from my virtual walking cane? Here's what: revisiting it made me ponder the setup of the series, and the marvellous applicability of the title in many of its interpretations. Two alleged family members that are repeatedly pictured as exactly what the title says (and I do not refer to the sexual interpretation): two people knowing absolutely nothing about each other and appearing to be as different as they come, are juxtaposed and blended. Especially Balki is presented as a weird dude, though Larry soon is proved to be the owner of quite a few quirks himself. Yet another way in which this odd couple are perfectly strange. Now the english phrase 'perfect strangers' in some uses has come to hold the promise of perfection: although this unknown person is, well, exceptionally unknown, the potential of being fit for you is there: this guy/gal could be the lid on your teapot (pardon the dutchism), or may turn out to (be) quite like you.

Thus it is with Freds! There were lives before Fred-ity, and even before the (westflemish little girl induced) meeting of Freds-to-be. At the time of the introductions, the spectator may have thought no different than me during the first episode: these guys are unalike. I mean: you have Freds with a strong mathematical background, while another is more philologically inclined. Some Freds keep (at least at the current age) their hair lengths near the boxer: short; the use of elastics for style control is not uncommon for another (admittedly, these can also be found near a boxer). There are Freds who actually own the house, and one who will always be a guest.

Then the borderline of differences becomes dashed or even dotted: academia, a sharp keyboard (pencils are so nineties), well (and certainly) wrought english sentences, the love for redneck Nelson M (or other variants of the game that is not to be addressed as one of chance) and verbal humor, an eagerness to debate philosophical issues and much more, unites us, as does, now, the shared name and blog. To quote Maxi Jazz: we come 1. This goes to the point that (disregarding occasional references to past events that were unique to each Fred's life and known to some if not all readers, and a handful of identifiable habits involving dashes, semicolons and comparisons like the aliens in the X-files: out there) it might become hard to distinguish the writing Fred of each individual post - can you? Surely, in some peoples' books we might by now be regarded as equally strange. Now, all we need is a theme song.

Perhaps it is as with beauty and even perfection - and you can mark that as a Fred-ism : strangeness is in the eye of the beholder.