Tetherd Cow Ahead

Now, I have to confess that there are no giant rabbits in Australia and I actually made up some things in that last post. Yeah, yeah, I know, hard to believe that I would just make something up but there ya go. Normally I would not feel the need for such a disclaimer, but in this post I am going to tell you about something almost as bizarre and yet it is entirely true.

Both jedimacfan and Joe Fuel were of a mind as to how Australia’s rabbit problems could be addressed, and indeed, their suggestions are not far off the mark. Let me tell you about the rabbit control program that we had in place at Treehouse.

First of all, you need to erase from your mind the image of the fluffy cottontail Watership Down hippity-hoppity bunny. Those are not rabbits – they are the cutesy concoctions of evil minds who lived in some place where the rabbit has natural predators. Not Australia.

As I intimated in the last post, what Australia means to the rabbit can be summed up in one word: smorgasbord (well, I don’t know if rabbits understand Swedish, but whatever the rabbit equivalent to that is. Probably “ee–eeee–e-eee-ee”).

Some statistics:

Rabbits breed awful fast, and have a lot of baby rabbits. Gestation period for a rabbit is 30 days and they typically have between 5 to 8 kittens. They reproduce for about nine months out of every year. That’s about 40 new rabbits every year. One single rabbit can deplete an entire hectare of Australian native vegetation in the course of its natural grazing habit. And Australian native plants are not just tasty to rabbits, they are gourmet yummy treat delights. Rabbits will eat native flora in preference to just about anything else. This is devastating to the vegetation, but also debilitating for native animals and birds which depend on that habitat. One eighth of all mammalian species that once lived on the Australian continent are extinct due to rabbits. I was not able to find figures for native ground-dwelling birds, but you could probably assume a similar number.

Rabbits in Australia have virtually no predators. There are introduced foxes, but the foxes prefer to eat the native wildlife because, well, before foxes there were no predators and so everyone was a little relaxed with the ‘run-away’ response. Eagles eat some rabbits, as do snakes, but all-in-all, it’s Rabbit Côte d’Azur.

Well, except for the myxo and the calicivirus, two biological control methods that have been released with varying and unexpected effects.

So, say the Côte d’Azur with bird flu.

When one becomes a landowner in Australia, as I did with my 25 acres of bush around the Treehouse, one is legally obliged to deal with the rabbit problem that comes as an added bonus with that land. On flat outback farms, this is a relatively simple matter – you get the tractor and plough the burrows (containing bunnies) under. Done. Or, in difficult areas, you chuck in a couple of sticks of dynamite and kablooey! Goodbye Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail.

Treehouse was in the Kanimbla Valley, however, a genteel allotment of ‘lifestyle’ acres and hobby farms. Sort of suburbia with neighbours too far away for their hi-fis to annoy you. Very hilly and rocky, so not good for ploughing, and a little crowded for dynamiting.*

So there are a number of other rabbit eradication measures available: poisoning by phostoxin and 1080; shooting, trapping and ferrets. Aside from the poisoning, which is pretty ugly, we tried all the others. None were as effective as…

The Rid-A-Rabbit.

Here’s how it works: you have a cannister of LPG which you lump around to the burrows. The LPG sublimes into a white heavier-than-air vapour when it comes out of compression, and you let some of that flow down into the burrow. It will automatically find the lowest point underground. You put in just a small amount of gas – you don’t want the burrow full of gas because you need oxygen in there too (yep, I can see that the Fuels and Jedimacfan have raced well ahead here).

Then, a second person places what is essentially a fancy oven-lighter on a very long extension cord in the mouth of the burrow. Then everyone runs like hell to get as far away as possible, and the person with the oven-lighter fires the switch.

One of two things generally happens:

A: Nothing. The gas/air mixture is not right.
B: There is an earth shaking kaboom, flashes erupt out of every burrow entrance attached to that hutch (rabbits are canny enough to realise that several doors are better than one, especially when it comes to ferrets), and the sound echoes impressively across the valley (which alerts all your neighbours that you are being virtuous and they should be doing the same).†

Oh, a third thing that sometimes happens is that callous unfeeling Rid-A-Rabbit operators feel the need to start singing “Bright Eyes, burning like fire…“

*Although I was tempted, on occasion, to think about lobbing a stick or two down into the place below me which was owned by some halfwit who, for reasons known only to himself, felt compelled to light up his driveway with airport runway lights at night.

†I know this sounds cruel, but of all the methods available, it is actually the most humane. The rabbits die of instant concussion and/or asphyxiation; all the oxygen in the burrow is instantaneously consumed by rapid combustion. I’m not saying it is pleasant, just better than dying of phostoxin poisoning, which is essentially slow painful death by a form of mustard gas. The Geneva Convention would appear to agree with me: many countries are allowed to have weapons that use the ‘Instant Air Evacuation’ or ‘thermobaric’ principle in their armoury, but chemical weapons such as mustard gas are illegal. That’s People-Testing for animals. You can read about Fuel/Air explosions in warfare here if you have a strong stomach.

Well, the Moon being in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligned with Mars, I’ve decided to use the conjunction to combine a few things that people have asked me about at one time or another. Jill was enquiring about our edible native animals, and jedimacfan and Universal Head have both shown an unhealthy interest in Australian ‘Big Things’.

So herewith, for your viewing pleasure, the scourge of The Great Southern Land, the Giant Rabbit.

Yes, I know, technically not native animals, rabbits, but by golly, they may as well be there are so many of them.

The rabbit originally comes from Spain, you know. I’m sure it is a darling happy little critter as it hops around Spanish meadows. Here, it is a hideous feral menace.

The rabbit was introduced to Australia very early on. Opinions as to dates vary. There were rabbits on the First Fleet (1788), but it is generally accepted that the real problem didn’t start until about 1859 when a small number of rabbits was released for hunting purposes.*

The introduction went something like this:

Englishman: Australia, this is the rabbit. Rabbit, this is Australia

Australia: Pleased to meet you Rabbit!

Rabbit: Howdy Do! (thinks: ‘Jiminy Cricket – the whole freakin’ place is EDIBLE!’)

Think Hansel and Gretel seeing the witch’s cottage, but with no witch.

Of course, while they were small, rabbits were hard to control and that was bad enough. But then the British, not content with just letting the jumping pests loose in the first place, carried out their atomic tests in Maralinga in the 1950s*, creating the first mutant bunnies, leading to the mega-Rabbit and all the disastrous consequences that followed. In the photo above you see a misguided attempt to usefully re-skill this Giant Rabbit, a government initiated project that was doomed to disaster from the first hop.

*Some things in this post are factual.

So, anyway, the lock on the security grill on my front door* has slowly become harder to open over time and I decide that I need to consult a locksmith.

There is one a couple of blocks from me. I give them a call. Dave, the locksmith, is very helpful.

You should be able to undo two screws and pull out the lock pretty easily. Bring it down tomorrow and I’ll take a look. We shouldn’t need to come out and it will save you money. We’ll possibly need to replace the escutcheon†, the lock, or maybe cut you a new key to the lock. We can probably do it while you wait.

I think it might be that my key is just worn and I need a new one.

Yep, that’s possible too, I’ll be able to tell you straight away.

The next day I take out the lock – Dave was right, it comes out easily.
I walk down to the shop. A buzzer sounds when I open the door. A little fat man comes out.

Hi. Dave?

No, Dave isn’t here today.

Oh, OK. Dave told me to bring my lock down and you could tell me what’s wrong with it. I think maybe I just need a new key.

The guy examines the key and lock.

Nothing wrong with the key. You need a new escutcheon.

Oh, OK, fine. Can you do that for me.

Sure.

He disappears into the backroom. There is some tapping and clunking and a little bit of grinding. He comes back.

There, that’s better.

He turns the key. It looks good. I pay him $13, take it home and put it back in the door. It sticks as soon as I try it. Oops, I think, it’s actually something wrong with the door. Maybe it’s misaligned or something. I take the lock out and turn the key. Nope. It’s still sticking – just like before. I go back to the shop.

It’s still sticking.

The little fat guy peers at the lock and wobbles the key. It sticks. I show him how it works from one direction and not from the other.

I think I might just need a new key – see how badly this one’s worn?

He wobbles the key again.

No, it’s not the key. It has to be in straight and it works – see?

He wobbles the key and it opens.

Yes, I know I can wobble it around and it will eventually open, but I want it to work properly – no wobbling and jiggling. Just open and close.

He sighs. He goes into the back room. There is some sawing and grinding. He comes back. He wobbles the key in the lock.

Ok, now that’s better.

I try it. It sticks two times out of three.

Look, I don’t want it to do this. I don’t care what it takes – do I need to replace the lock? Whatever. I just want it to work properly. Maybe I need a new key made?

He takes the lock into the back room. There is clunking, grinding and more grinding. And more grinding and some tapping. For fifteen minutes. I walk around the shop thinking about how crappy the security is for a lock shop – I could steal a bunch of padlocks, keys and miniature surveillance cameras.

The guy comes back.

There, it’s better.

He wobbles the key to show me. It sticks.

Now look. I don’t want any more of this. I just want it fixed. Do you have a replacement lock. Whatever it takes. I don’t want any sticking. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

He shakes his head and goes into the backroom. I can see him rummaging around in cabinets. Another guy turns up and there is conversation I can’t quite hear, and they both start rummaging. This goes on for another five or ten minutes. Then there is silence. Then, oddly, some more grinding and tapping and clunking. He’s working on the lock again! I stick my head around the door.

Excuse me, what are you doing?

He holds up the lock.

It’s a bit better!

Look. I DON’T WANT YOU TO DO THIS. I’VE BEEN HERE FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. I JUST WANT A NEW LOCK.

We don’t have any locks like that.

He comes back out into the shop and puts the lock on the counter.

That’s all I can do. See, the key has to be level – there’s too much movement. It’s not a good lock.

But it always used to work fine, and it works perfectly from one direction, just not the other. Maybe it’s the key – see the tine is worn and bent. Maybe it works on the tumblers one way and not the other. Maybe I just need a new key that isn’t worn like this one?

He gives me a withering look that says “What would you know about locks you stupid moron with the IQ of a squirrel?”, disappears for three seconds into the back of the shop and comes back with a key that is exactly like a non-worn version of my key.

He puts it in the lock. It works perfectly.‡

*I may live in the most wonderful city in the world, but we still have junkies.

‡This is an entirely true story. It happened yesterday.

Ah, Faithful Acowlites! Welcome to 2006. And what more fitting a way to ring in the New Year could I choose than a post about penis size? And not just any penises. We’ve spared no expense and today we’re going to be talking Historical Celebrity Penis Wars.

But I’m getting ahead of myself; let’s start at the beginning. This morning, Nurse Myra, ever on the alert for penis opportunities forwarded me this Important Information from ‘Haltungverbund’:

From: Haltungverbund
Subject: Make your penis visible through your pants.

Have y0ur heard of Erotic Museam in St. Petersburg? After t@k1ng our Viril1ty Patch RX, your dick can be exhibited there as the biggest penis ever.

Make your penis visible through your pants. Our Virility Patch RX can make your penis amazingly huge.

There is a number of medical conditions that affect penis size. These are evident at birth and may require medical intervention.

But there is only one way to fight a small penis. And it’s called Virility Patch RX.

Oh, the mirth.

Well, Haltungverbund had one up on me though – I didn’t know there was an Erotic Museam in St Petersbug, so I looked it up! Yep, there it was: ‘The very first Russian Museum of Erotica’ established by the Head Physician of the Prostate Center of The Russian Academy of Sciences, Igor Knyazkin. ((Source: Pravda – “St. Petersburg to host the first Museum of Erotica in Russia”))

“I want Russia to be a civilized country that looks into the future and has a correct vision of erotica,” stated Knyazkin to the Nezavisimaya Gazette.”

Which is, after all, an admirable goal. An uncivilized Russia looking backwards into the past with an incorrect vision of erotica defies imagination.

To this end, the exhibit that Knyazkin has chosen to symbolize this forward-looking civilized erotic Russia is, quite logically, Grigori Rasputin’s preserved penis.

“Having such unique item on display, we can stop envying America that treasures Napoleon Bonaparte’s reproductive organ,” states Knyazkin. “In 1970s, Napoleon’s genitals have been sold to an American urologist at an auction for $4000 USD. Napoleon’s private part however is just a mere pod in comparison to our 30cm long organ.” ((Did anyone else know this international-scale penis-envy was going on? So that’s what the Cuban Missile Crisis was really about. ))

Yeah, take that you Yankee pigdogs with yer petite and undoubtedly gay Froggy penis. ((Dr. Knyazkin has also managed to acquire a gold-plated box containing the genitals of Joan of Arc. If I’d known there was such a trade in the reproductive organs of Historical Personages I’d have paid a lot more attention in history classes (I’ll trade you Genghis Khan’s foreskin for… Anne of Cleves’ nipples and a snuff box full of Rene Descartes’ pubic hair…)))

Yep, that thing that the pretty girl is looking at in the picture, is supposed to be Rasputin’s penis. Here’s a picture on Flickr of another pretty girl looking at it. ((I’m sorry if I’ve infringed anyone’s copyright here, but I hope you’ll agree it’s in everybody’s interest that these photographs are bought to the attention of the world.))

I don’t even want to speculate what these girls might be thinking, but I do wonder if they were there on the same day that Rasputin’s great grandson John Nekmerson visited the St. Petersburg museum. On viewing his ancestor’s pickled part Mr Nekmerson exclaimed, “This is really it, I’ve got the same one!”

He evidently has no need of Haltungverbund’s RX Virility Patch.

Which brings us back to Haltungverbund’s original email and allows us to make a few important observations:

1: If you want to exhibit your dick at the St Petersburg Museum of Erotica, then this surely implies that you need to be separated from it so they can put it in a jar for photographs. Sorry Haltungverbund, I’m not interested in this.

2: The Russians have taken Haltungverbund’s suggestion that “there is only one way to fight a small penis” on board and are countering with their Mad Monk’s Monster Member. Come on Yankees! Are you going to defend your title with the Coquettish Cock of a Cropped Corsican? Surely Lanky Abe Lincoln’s Lengthy Lingam will stand up for you! Or is the Cold War still at work on your nether regions?

3: It’s actually a simple matter to have your penis visible through your pants if that’s really something you desire: just wear cheesecloth pants. This might not count as high fashion, but if visibility is what you seek, and your name is John Nekmerson, none of the girls are going to be looking at the pants.

Happy New Year! S Novim Godom! Bonne Année!

Welcome to 2006!

Stefan Marti at MIT’s Media Lab Speech Interface Group has come up with a idea he calls the Autonomous Active Intermediary. This is essentially a device that acts as a facilitator between a person and their communications network. To this end, Stefan has come up with The Cellular Squirrel, an agent that sits between you and your mobile phone.

The basic concept goes something like this: mobile phones are very intrusive and distracting and integrating them into your personal situations is never elegant. So why not do something really natural and familiar to everybody, like have a squirrel take your calls!

This is how Stefan puts it:

The conversational agent is able to converse with caller and callee—at the same time, mediating between them, and possibly suggesting modality crossovers. It deals with incoming communication attempts when the user cannot or does not want to. It’s a dual conversational agent since it can converse with both user and caller simultaneously, mediating between them.

Oh, I can really see how that’s going to turn out…

Caller: Hello, is that Pete?

Squirrel: No, this is his squirrel.

Caller: His squirrel? O-o-k-a-a-y… can I talk to Pete?

Squirrel: What’s it about? He’s pretty busy.

Caller: Um, I’d really rather discuss this with him than with a squirrel.

Squirrel (sighs): Oh very well, I’ll see if he can talk to you.

Squirrel (to Pete): Hey dude, there’s some glue-sniffer on the line, too good to talk to a squirrel. Whaddya want me to do?

Pete: I’m busy nailing up this wainscotting, can you take a message?

Squirrel (to Pete): Sure chief, anything you say.

Squirrel (to caller): Well nuts to you fella – he says he don’t want to talk jive with no squirrel-hater. State your business or shuffle off to Buffalo.

I don’t want to seem like I’m completely ridiculing this idea. I can see how it could be really cool. One of the (many) things I like about Philip Pullman’s amazing ‘His Dark Materials’ books is the animal daemons that Lyra and her folk have with them always. I’d really like a little animal familiar, especially in this enlightened time when nobody holds silly superstitious beliefs that can get you hung as a witch. Much.

I kind of fancy a parrot, myself, it being in keeping with my piratical bent & all. It obviously leapt pretty smartly into Stefan’s mind also, because he already has a working prototype of one of those as well:

But for Stefan, the squirrel is obviously the agent du jour. I have to admit, it has some surreal cachet. I long to be able to say:

“Hey man, good to see you! We should do lunch. I’ll get my squirrel to talk to your squirrel and we’ll sort something out!”

This creepy and beautiful little movie made by 1st Avenue Machine is like something snipped from a nature doco about an alien world. Cute music too.