How I broke my ankle

So, I'm finally home from what should have been a half hour routine check-up with my nephrologist (or kidney doctor for stoopid yanks) at Lillehammer hospital, but turned out to be a long day being shipped up and down between doctors, the x-ray machine (3 times!) and more doctors. And lots of wrinkly, ugly, old nurses; not even the hot kind. Meh. The only good thing that happened all day was when I was waiting to take a blood test (for the kidneys) and a young lady with a small kid went in before me and the noises that came out of that office sounded more like a bunch of wildcats fighting than a human child. For all I know, her head spun round and she projectile vomited dark blood.

Anyway, to recap: I slipped on the ice outside McDonalds, parked at the hospital, limped in and had my half hour, was sent up to x-ray which looked like a fracture, was sent down to orthopedic and promptly sent back up to x-ray to get better pics, then down again to get a slight cast around my ankle, up to x-ray to confirm that the cast was placed right relative to the injury, then down to orthopedic yet again, where they explained to me how to use crutches, which I've never used before.

In between all this there was endless waiting, which allowed me to finally, but fucking finally understand WHY people sit on their little smartphones all day and I gave thanks to Bob the Rain God that I had finally gotten one. I emailed my landlady and my boss and posted updates and insults on FB.

It was almost like being in a very slow, cumbersome version of home; like an Amish Facebook user, with my tongue sticking ever so slightly out of the corner of my mouth as my sausage fingers searched for the right button to push and by mistake pushed the one beside instead. Yeah, that happened. A lot. But I managed, and now I am back to my dear laptop with its large keyboard and screen.

"But what happened with the ole' leg", I hear you say, for I frequently hear voices and they're not always screaming for the blood of innocents. Well, the slight cast I have on now will probaby go off in a week, to be replaced by a proper, harder cast. At the same time they will also do a CT-scan of the leg and even make a decision on whether to operate or just leave it to grow of its own accord.

The doc in orthopedics told me that due to my diabetes-related neuropathy, there was good news and bad news. On the bright side, I won't feel as much pain as I normally would. On the not so bright side I will heal more slowly. Which brings me to a potentially big problem; estimated time I have to have a fucking cast on, precluding moi driving my beloved automobile, indeed any automobile at all, is 9 weeks versus normally 5-6.

We'll have to wait and see how the injury heals, but I was supposed to go to Scotland to chaufeur a couple of Californians around on April 17th. Iffin that 9-week time table still stands, there are two possibilities; either I need to arrange for a hand-controlled handicap car or a certain Californian needs to learn how to drive on the left.

I was sent home by taxi tonight - almost an hour's drive to the tune of appx 2500 NOK/300 USD, of which I personally paid a measly 149 NOK/17 USD. The rest is paid for by all you Norwegian readers through your taxes; a heartfelt thanks!

The walk from the courtyard along the garage and round to my entrance was almost too much and I would not have made it if not for the support of the taxi driver. I almost fell several times and the actual steps up to my apartment turned out to be too much for my crutches and my by now worn out left leg, which had had to bear the brunt of the struggles. I had to use my right leg for support even though I'm really not supposed to put any stress on it the first week. My landlady very kindly helped me with getting seated and brought me drink and medicines and stuff, but I already fear getting up and doing even the simplest things, like making a sandwich or *shudder* going to the bathroom.

Tomorrow I need to call my primary physician to write me a sick note for work and also I must contact the municipal authorities to hear what types of aids they can offer me, like maybe a walker. I foresee several weeks of cumbersome shittiness, medical mistakes interspersed with hours of tedious waiting and not least lots and lots of pain, glorious pain. I want a blanket, hot cocoa and sympathy, knowing full well that y'all are gonna rip me to shreads for being a whiny bitch who should have just gnawed off my leg and gotten on with it.

Some pics from this summer

These pics were taken on a drive I had in early September this year... they are posted mainly to remind myself what a lovely place Norway can be in summer, as opposed to the grey/white sludge of snow and ice we're in for now and the next 4-5 months. I hate winter with every fibre of my soul.

Lovely views at a waterfall a few miles to the northwest of here. I believe the place is called Høla.


Looking upstream.


Some miles further up the road with views towards the south-western parts of Valdres.

A quick visit to Krautland

Last Monday around noon I set off from Oslo to spend a week in an apartment in Berlin. It belonged to some friends of mine, who had graciously agreed to lend it out for free (they must not know me very well). I set off and drove down Sweden and then through Denmark and reached Germany without any incident.

I stayed the night at the Ibis hotel just across the border with Denmark, ouside Flensburg. It was a very typical roadside hotel in that it was next to a gas station, was reasonably priced (at 10PM reception closed, but you could still check in via a machine) and that there was a sex shop not ten yards away from the hotel entrance. The one strange thing that befell me was that as I walked out of the gas station around midnight, having loaded up on snack and water, I was hailed by a young girl on roller skates. Apparently she was looking for a ride up through Denmark.

Tuesday morning I set off for Berlin, and I was actually in a fairly good mood as I entered the city. The heavens opened up as I started navigating the streets, but I managed to reach my destination in one piece. I parked on the street, grabbed my bags and hauled them up to the fifth floor apartment (narrowly escaping a heart attack) and then went to put money on the meter. And then hell commenced.

First, the center of Berlin has no free parking, absolutely everywhere is a payment zone with the same exact ticket machines. I quickly resigned to this, and was ready to fork over the 13 Euros (appx $17) it would cost me per day to stay in town. But, these machines would not accept my VISA card, nor my mastercard. I had no Euro coins on my person.

Cursing the poor state of German technology, I went to ask a policeman what to do, thinking that in such an advanced nation as Germany, any local representative of official Krautdom must surely be able to communicate with me in English. No luck. He pointed to the machines, but when I said it didn't accept my cards, he only shrugged. Thankfully, a random guy on the street overheard the feeble attempt at a conversation and was able to direct me to a place where I could withdraw Euros; the local post office.

I ran around the block (which was effin huge btw) and got out 250 Euros in paper money and went back to try and change some of it into coins. Just before the last corner, a disgusting little man who would not look out of place in a Gestapo uniform, came from the other direction. He was carrying a small apparatus that looked suspiciously like the ones traffic wardens in Norway have started to use to write out tickets with.

I approached him wearily, and as I suspected he spoke no English. I was able to ask him if he had ticketed my Norwegian car, feeling fairly certain that I could explain that I was coming back from taking out Euros and therefore was not to blame for the car's lack of a permit.

He answered, in German, that he had indeed ticketed me, and then proceeded to explain why. First, I did not have some sort of environmental sticker on my car, which apparently all cars of a certain age or model needed to have to drive in central Berlin. There was nothing, absolutely nothing about this on any signs along the main roads into town, at least not in English.

Secondly, and it was this that made me blow my lid, I had parked in the wrong direction.

Let that one sink in for a minute.

I... had... parked... in... the... wrong... direction...

This is the kind of insane attention to absurd rules and regulations that allow a nation to build BMWs and concentration camps. My opinion of Krauts and Krautland should by now be well known to most regular readers (both of you), and this was the final, fascist straw that broke this poor camel's back. I thanked him politely through gritted teeth, went to the car to find a ticket which consisted of two small, tightly written pages in German - not a word of English - climbed the stairs again, retrieved my bags and got the hell outta Berlin. I swore a holy oath never to return to that horrible country ever again, and I intend to keep it.

We bombed these fascist fucks back to the stone age not 70 years ago, I'd like to think primarily so that I wouldn't have to deal with the German language in our day and age. We fought a war; English won. Even here in potatoland Norway, we post signs in English along every road into Oslo about the fee you need to pay for driving with studded tires in the winter. And we were on the winning team.

Any country which has supposedly been an ally of America for nearly 70 years, but where its officials still speak no English, yet insist on giving tickets for completely absurd reasons to foreigners, can go fuck themselves, in the ass, with a blunt object. Meanwhile, I shall plan all my future holidays around Germany - literally.

Insanity

Remember the incident where I got reamed in the ass last August? Some woman in a jeep/SUV plowed into the back of my car in Oregon, and I had to change vehicles north of Eureka, even though all that was wrong was the safety belt had twisted itself and there was a small dent in the back bumper... yeah, that incident.

I got word from her insurance guy yesterday that he'd cut a check to Hertz for almost 12,000 dollars. They had totaled the vehicle for that little dent. My head is spinning with the sheer insanity of it. The insurance agent agreed, but according to him new parts were so expensive they would cost more than the car was worth. I wonder how much that poor woman's insurance premium has gone up after the incident.

For your viewing pleasure - the dent that wrecked a perfectly good Jetta:

Wounded Knee

The massacre of Wounded Knee was the last military confrontation between the U.S. Army and the Sioux nation, and contrary to some loony left stories I've read in various Norwegian media, it was not a planned massacre but a tragic accident. To this day it remains highly debatable who fired the first shot.

Anyway, the place is strangely little developed for an important historic place in the US, and I think I am going to blame this on the fact that it is still on injun land. If this was on regular US land, I think there would be a visitor's center, with bathrooms and wi-fi and coke vending machines. There would almost certainly be a McDonalds nearby. I had read that there was supposed to be a museum on site, but I couldn't find one when I went down there on Thursday.

As it is, a few dusty old injuns keep an "information office" under an awning, while some younger 'uns sell trinkets up by the graveyard. There's a huge placard the size of a small billboard, with the story of the massacre written out on both sides. It is all very dusty, low-key and may I say third-world countryish.

As with most "native land" in America, the Sioux reservation around Wounded Knee is generally piss-poor and with the highest concentration of religious loonies anywhere outside the darkest bible belt of the south. This is what happens when a people and their culture is defeated utterly by a superior one and can't seem to fathom what has happened and deal with it in a rational manner.

The injuns on the American reservations remain stuck in a horrible mixture of stupid old customs and new religion (from which they tend to take the most idiotic elements) and seek the intoxication of either the liquor bottle or Christianity instead of getting a proper education and a good job and fuckin' get ON with things like the injuns outside the reservations have done, and with good results.

All pics here.

Wounded Knee. "Information office" to the left.


Overview pic.


Graveyard monument. I have NO idea what the Menorah, nor the Swedish flag are doing there.

Calling 911

Today I did it for the first time. I called 911. Allow me to explain.

I'd been awake all night in my motel room in a suburb just north of Minneapolis. Unable to sleep on account of being so sick I honestly thought I was going to cough up a lung, I hit the shower, got dressed and left the motel for Fargo, ND at around 4 AM.

Within a few seconds of leaving, my gas indicator was down to its last bar. The two first exits I took, the gas stations all were closed and since I have no US zip code, I could not use my Visa card. As I continued to search for open stations, I got more and more desperate.

Finally I found one, went in and prepaid 50 bucks, then walked out to fill up. As I stood there, a black Pontiac drove up in front of the station. Out poured, for lack of a better word, a black woman in high heels and a tight, short dress - a "working woman", to be sure. She dropped her car keys on the ground, picked them up with some problems and walked on wobbly legs to the door and went in.

Now, I couldn't give a fuck what people do for a living, including prostitution. Victimless crime, none of my fuckin' business. But when people who are clearly incapacitated attempt to operate a heavy vehicle and share the road with me and others, I draw the line.

While she was inside doing her thing, I wrote down her license number and car make. I also made a note of the county road number I was on. I then went back to my car and waited. When she came out to the cashier again, I went inside as I wanted to be 100% sure before calling the cops. She was clearly out of it. She complained of having lost her car keys (which she'd had two minutes before...) and went back to the bathroom to look for them.

The two attendants were looking at each other with lusty leers, so I asked, just to get a second opinion, if they thought the woman was sober. One of the attendants replied "no way", but when I asked if he shouldn't call the cops, he said he used to do that, but by the time they arrived the drunk drivers were usually gone. Not quite satisfied with such a passive attitude, I went out to my car and promptly called 911.

I had a long, pleasant conversation with the dispatcher - he stayed with me till the cops came. He took down details of where the station was, descriptions of the car and the woman, he asked where I was from (I got the reaction I always get - "you're a long way from home") and he asked me to stay until the cops got there to see if they needed my information and to back up that I'd seen her actually drive.

Meanwhile, she'd made it outside, but thank fuck she was smoking and texting and taking her sweet time. One of the attendants also came outside to smoke and they were still talking when the first police car arrived, probably around ten minutes after I'd made the call. I hung up with the dispatcher and watched the scene.

The cop was a white woman, and she was talking with the drunk driver when police car #2 pulled up right behind them. A white guy, this time. He came over to my car and took down my details (my Norwegian driver's licence caused some hilarity, as it always does, being valid until I turn 100 years old...) and we talked a little. Turns out all four of his grandparents were Norwegian. I commented that they had a lot of Scandinavians in Minnesota, and he replied "yeah, but mostly those pesky Swedes. Beggars and thieves the lot of 'em".

After nearly pissing myself with laughter we rounded off with him thanking me and letting me go on my merry way to North Dakota. By now it had tipped 5 AM (I think) and as I looked in my back mirror they were still talking to the drunk driver. I have no idea if she got off with a warning or if she'll have to do time. I have no idea if this was a first time offense or a repeat one. I have no idea if she would have made it home without any problems whatsoever or if she might have killed or maimed someone.

All I know is that I've seen one traffic injury too many to let something like that just slip away. So iffin yer ever in mah company of a night and you're drinking, know this: I'll call the cops if you try to drive home. That IS the kind of guy I am.

Mississippi River Museum

The National Mississippi River Museum & Aquarium is located in the cozy town of Dubuque, Iowa, which again sits exactly where Iowa meets Illinois and Wisconsin. This is literally the American heartland, so it is fitting that a tribute to the greatest river in the history of the greatest nation on earth should be situated here.

The Mississippi museum is a huge, wonderful collection of informative and entertaining displays, only slightly diminished by the fact that Wednesday, the day of my visit there, it was all being overrun by several tourbuses worth of screaming, crying, shouting ankelbiters with the IQ of bricks. How stoopid were these kids? Well, I overheard one adult in the cafeteria, telling a child to stop chewing his own shirt; that's how stoopid.

Still, the museum can't really be blamed for not electrocuting anyone under five feet (and I include midgets, cuz dey be CREEPY), and I like to think that every now and then a child goes "missing", only to be fed to the alligator they have in one of their many watertanks.

Including about 20 minutes for lunch, I spent pretty exactly four hours in this place, and for those who have read this blog for a while (hello to both of you), it's a rare museum indeed which can hold my minuscule attention for more than 90 minutes. If you're ever in this area, please go see it - no, go OUT of your way to see it; I can hardly recommend it enough.

All pics here.

The alligator was floating peacefully until the midget horde arrived; then it began to paddle around with a "get me the hell outta here" look on its reptilian face.


"I can haz cheeseburger?"


One of many displays primarily for kids. They also had a petting tank where the resident sturgeons had the brains to cower in the far corner whenever a tiny snotface approached.


"We're otters, we swim around and do cute little human things with our hands". Bonus points for anyone who comes up with the reference.


They had a place where you could be the captain of a tug boat. It goes without saying that this was filled with anklebiters.


Two sting rays dancing around.


"I's shtayin in dis cornah. Dem shting rays be craaaazy, man".


Sting ray in another tank. I'll be forever thankful to this species for shutting up that annoying, irresponsible eejit Steve Irwin.


Catfish. Ugliness incarnated.


Here you could get your hands dirty in the mud of the Amazon, without uhm... getting your hands dirty.


They had a very impressive 4D theatre. The "4" consisted of the audience getting sprayed with water at regular intervals. That part was NOT impressive.


I believe this was some kind of outdoor playground, mostly for grown men, where you could put money in little machines and then navigate the tiny boats.


This ugly thing, which looks ready to be scraped off the wall, is actually a type of turtle.


A cayman, which is a type of crocodile. This one almost had me thinking it was a model... until it opened its eyes.


King of the Mississippi, Mark Twain.


Brer Rabbit was originally a wide array of African folktales which found new life in America.

Why I hate modern technology

So I'm sitting in my motel room in Macedonia, Ohio. Starving. Famished. Hollowed out. Why? Because when I ordered a pizza 75 minutes ago, I made the mistake of trusting the internets. Allow me to explain.

I'd gotten a brochure for the pizza chain "Romeos" from the motel front desk and since it didn't list a place in this town, I put the hotel zip code in the pizza place's web page. It told me that "Medina" was the closest to me. I call the number for Medina, give them my address and make an order, then sit back, drooling in anticipation.

I then get a phone call from the delivery guy. He says he's at a motel 6 but they don't HAVE my room number in their building. So I give him the address again and he says he'll be right down.

Fully one hour after I made my order he calls again, somewhat desperate, enquiring as to just where the fuck I am (I'm paraphrasing for dramatic effect, he was professional throughout the whole conversation). I repeat my address for the THIRD time and this time a light bulb goes off. Turns out both the pizza place, the driver and my beloved but rapidly cooling pizza is located 45 fucking minutes away. The fucking internet page has given me the wrong fucking restaurant.

So I call Medina, get the order cancelled, chew them out over their web page and ask them which restaurant I should have called, being in Macedonia. They say Twinsburg. As soon as we end the call I walk over to the reception to confirm this new address. There, they laugh themselves silly over me having tried to get a pizza from Medina before telling me that while Twinsburg is reasonably close, they won't deliver to Macedonia. I need to call Northfield.

So that's what I've done. Now I am waiting for Northfield to deliver. I am starved, nay famished, nay hollowed out. This pizza better be fuckin' GOOD, that's all I have to say.

Doing my part

I would like to thank the various American state and local governments for providing me with the opportunity to help them out of their financial difficulties, one speeding ticket at a time. Don't spend it all at once, New Mexico.

Sunday I was driving through Deming, NM, and had actually turned on to the road that went onto the interstate when a police car turned on its lights behind me. I pulled in at a gas station, where I was fined $76 for doing 46 mph in a 35 zone. The female cop actually knocked my speed down to 45, so that I got off with $76 instead of $91, so I can't really complain.

The fuck-fuckety-fucking thing is that this time, I thought I was actually following the speed limit. I learned my lesson last year and had every intention of keeping to posted limits this time around. I had my cruise control on, idly thinking the legal limit was 45. I found to my sorrow that it wasn't. Wailing & gnashing of teeth.

S N O W

Took these two pics from my windows today. You'll notice the almost monochrome nature of the landscape and the driving snow. The picture, sadly, failed to fully capture the cold, windswept misery that is Norway today. Fuck, I hate winter.

I don't get no respect

Fuck, fuckety FUCK. I suggest Motel 6 in El Cajon give their "house keeeepiiiing" ladies a swift course in English, cuz this? Won't. Fuckin'. Do. My head is about to explode in rage over their behavior.

TWICE today I have explained, in clear, unbroken, unaccented, American English that I don't need any cleaning today, thank you very much (I arrived after midnight, and there is only so much wear & tear I can commit in a room in half a day!). Twice I have had the sneaking suspicion that I was not being understood and that the person on the other side of the door was thinking hard about entering. Twice there has been an unusually long break between my last "thank you" and the fading sound of shuffling feet that signals the departure of a maid.

Still, the last maid, after being told not to enter, that I needed nothing, and being told "thank you" repeatedly... OPENED the door. I was sitting with my back to it, in my underwear (a sight likely to scar you for life), typing an email and munching Domino's Pizza (and before you ask, I was dressed when it arrived!). If I hadn't had the security latch on, she would have barged straight in.

Motel 6, I dearly love your reasonably priced rooms. I understand the desire to employ immigrants at low wages, and I even applaud such work as the best way to integrate newcomers to America. But for fuck's sake, at least teach them to understand simple, basic instructions in English and the respect of privacy that Anglo-Saxon civilization was built on. Thank you.

Pearl Harbor

So, it's 1 PM on Thursday, Hawaii time. I am sitting at the airport, with my overpriced wi-fi. Beneath, you will find the three pictures I took out at Pearl Harbor earlier today - I couldn't be bothered to find out how to get to the memorials, much less actually tour them. You'll have to settle for these pics.

Let me also say, truly & deeply, that I don't think I've ever hated an American place more than Hawaii. Even fuckin' Vegas was better than this. Shitty hotel, shitty food, insane traffic, confusing and moronic signposting and absofuckinlutely no tourist information on the highways. If you're looking for gas or food, you'll have to chance it at any random exit.

In addition, many of the employees at hotels, shops, even the fuckin airport, speak little and atrocious English. For fuck's sake, I thought the US WON the Second World War? I thought they WON the Cold War? And yet, everywhere I look there's some immigrant speaking goobledeegok fluently, but barely enough English to sell me a fuckin' bottle of water. I've felt this kind of alienation ONCE before in the US, and that was in Chinatown in New York (another place that I'd level to the ground if I could).

Inside, I'm dancing and shouting with joy over going back to the American mainland. Hawaii is a savage third world country that happened to become a part of the United States, and for all I care they can fuckin' sink into the Pacific Ocean as soon as my plane takes off. Give the 50th star to Puerto Rico or sumfin' - or, on second thought, DON'T! I really don't want to go there either... I am sincerely looking forward to continuing my journeys on the wonderful, American mainland, and never more giving this wretched place another thought.

Aight, here are your pics.

This memorial is situated over the wreck of the USS Arizona, which was sunk by the slant eyed, emperor-worshipping, rice-eating bastards.


The USS Missouri, where the signing ceremony took place that ended the Second World War. Well, unconditional surrender actually. America, fuck yeah!


Some submarine.

I made another doo doo!

My blog "Ask a Norwegian" is now available as an e-book at Amazon Kindle. (You can download a Kindle for PC for free at Amazon. Also, for Iphone, Ipads, Blackberry, Android.)

For Americans it costs $10, for others $13.80: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0059XPVIO

For UK citizens the price is converted from $ (I'm not from the UK so I can't actually SEE their price): https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0059XPVIO

For assorted Eurotrash it costs less than 8 Euro, you can buy it from German Amazon: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B0059XPVIO

Below is the product description, written by yours truly. If you're still not convinced, pop over to http://www.askanorwegian.blogspot.com and read some stuff for free... then go over to Amazon and make me rich!

Yours greedily,

Ghost


Product Description


Originally a blog, now in book form comes the legendary* tales of the cold lands of the north! All the questions about Norway and Norwegians you never knew you wanted answered!** This book will not only enlighten you about Norway, but also insult quite a few other nationalities, species and sexes in addition.

Why are Norwegians so restrained, and are they really rude? What should you eat in Norway or see in Oslo? What is the most common pet? And are Swedes actually human? The answer to these and many more questions are found in this book.

Excerpts:

"There's ample opportunity for bathing, though I've never tested the waters myself for fear of getting harpooned."

"The Danes are generally drunk out of their minds, the Swedes are incapable of feeling emotions and most Norwegians just don't care about you, because we know we're better than you are."

"...today's Bergensians: The bastard offspring of horny, drunken Krauts and Norwegian prostitutes."

"The most common animals are cats, dogs and Swedes ... for disciplining domesticated Swedes, I recommend a rolled up newspaper or a Colt .45, depending on the transgression."

"Because, no matter how hard we've partied, no matter how much we puked (and on whom), no matter how big of an ass we made of ourselves we can always take comfort in this: At least we're not Germans."

"Cabins should have no water or electricity, in fact as few modern conveniences as possible. This is to ensure that the first several hours of any visit will, by necessity, be spent chopping wood and/or pumping water manually into buckets or containers, or carried up steep slopes from the nearest lake or river - which may be a mile's walk or more."

"Ours is an unappetizing hodgepodge of something that looks like it has already been vomited and redigested at least twice, and from the looks of it, the chief ingredients are corn (maize), sour cream and rat."

"Norway is a Lutheran country and until a relatively short time ago, most Norwegians never had sex, we reproduced through cell division or Immaculate Conception."

"Norway, like Sweden has a long tradition for bestiality..."

"...men are from Earth and women from Venus, or some other planet where the weather is permanently foggy and so communication is always fraught with dangers."


* Almost unknown.
** Well, some of them.***
*** Only a few, really.

Snow

This was the view out my living room window today around 6PM. It's official - next winter I'm hibernating!

Naples part II: How I almost died

No, dear reader, the title is not just fluff and exaggeration. I came closer to an early and untimely demise last night than ever before. Allow me to explain. The Lufthansa flight took off from Munich as scheduled, and was uneventful until we approached Naples. About 30 minutes out from Naples airport the plane went through some heavy turbulence but as we soon resumed smooth flying, I wasn't too worried. I am, after all, nothing if not a man of the world and I like to think I have seen my share of disturbances in the air. Don't sweat the petty stuff and don't pet the sweaty stuff is what I say.

However when we came even closer to Naples, things really started to heat up, metaphorically speaking. The plane really started to shake and rattle, and it soon felt like I was on a rollercoaster, not in an airplane. We were flying through thick fog so I saw fuck all to orientate myself, which probably added to the increasing panic I was feeling.

After what felt like an eternity of this terror the plane picked up speed and started to gain height again. I noticed we seemed to be turning around and soon got a sneaking suspicion. Were we going to land in Rome instead? Were they keeping us, so to speak, in the dark in order to minimize the complaning? Possibly. Anyway, after quite a while the captain came on the air and hesitantly explained that the weather in Naples was so awful he wasn't going to try to land us there and that we had, indeed already started our landing procedure in Rome.

It was probably a good thing that we were still in the air, because a howl arose from all the greaseballs on the plane. Cries of "impossibile" and "incredibile" and the likes could be heard all around. Personally I thanked the powers that be that the plane was flown by Germans, who could be trusted to put the lives of their passengers ahead of any need to be home with Mama for a hearty dinner of meatballs and spaghetti. If we had flown Alitalia or some such airline I have no doubt the pilots would have gone in on a wing and a prayer at the risk of smashing us all against Vesuvius like a glass of spicy tomato sauce, if you pardon the mental image. As it was we landed smoothly and safe in Rome an hour late.

Things started to deteriorate rapidly once we got to Rome. First of all, as soon as the plane started to slow down, the Italians exploded into the midway, opening overhead compartments and taking out clothes, bags, little children and whatever else they had stowed away up there - long before the plane had "come to a complete halt and the captain had switched off the fasten seatbelt sign". They kept standing in the aisle for one hour straight, talking loudly on their cell phones and effectively blocking out the messages the captain was trying to convey over the loudspeakers.

Also, as soon as the plane landed we were under Italian "jurisdiction", and what I laughingly refer to as Italian organizing began. First we spent almost an hour waiting in the plane, on the tarmac. Then we were taken to the terminal, where about half of us got our luggage and the rest had to wait for two fuckin' hours before the greaseballs got their collective asses in gear. It never occurred to them that half a load of luggage wasn't going to do anyone any good, since we were all ultimately going to the same place and had to wait till the last person got his last measly bag of dirty underwear.

The scenery in the arrival hall was a classic study of different cultures. Being Norwegian, I was naturally stoic about things. I grumbled and smouldered, but heaven forbid I actually DID anything, such as complaining to an official. There was a Canadian couple who also seemed to take things in good spirit - joking and grumbling but mostly joking. There were a couple of yanks on the plane and they were talking loudly about how someone should call the local media and create some pressure on the authorities to get SOMETHING done. This would probably work in a civilized nation, such as the US of A, but not in Italy. The Krauts were talking quietly and orderly to the plane's crew and, like yours truly, seemed to take it all in stride. Most of the Italians were running around like headless chicken (probably a step up on the intellectual scale) and waving their arms and hands at each other while talking on their cell phones.

Finally, around thirty minutes after midnight we were told to "follow the lady in blue" and soon we were led out of the building and on to two waiting buses. It still took almost 45 mins before we were on our way. It was well after 4 am when we arrived at the airport in Naples. I grabbed my luggage and rapidly negotiated my way to the nearest taxi. I arrived at my hotel at appx 4:45 am - dirty, sweaty, hungry and thirsty - but alive!

It's snowing...

...imma go hibernate now. Or just cry.

Kill kill kill

Today I was subjected to a half hour "concert" by a Norwegian "musician" at work. Our pupils had actually won a national contest (best at ignoring teachers' orders or something like that) and their prize was 30 minutes of howling and inaudible rubbish from a pair of Norwegian "rappers". The organization behind this was the fuckin Red Cross and they're never getting another cent from me again.

Those who know me will also know that I hate rap and rappers with a burning passion, it's the kind of hatred I normally reserve for people like Hitler and Stalin (say what you will, a man who kills 20 million peasants can't be ALL bad). The noise was almost unbearable as this fucker and his companions were holding court right outside the outer wall next to where we have our working spaces (I refuse to call our laughable workplaces "offices"). The walls shook and I could feel a throbbing bass banging away at the back of my head. Fortunately the bastards stopped before I received any permanent damage.

All I can say is, next year I'm gonna do my utmost to ensure that our school doesn't win a single thing if it involves another visit by so-called musicians who think their trade is improved by yelling the words, jumping around uncontrollably and generally acting like fuckin morons onstage. HATE!

Goodbye, Fuckbook

Facebook pulled the plug on my account yesterday, after my artwork "Muhammed The Ass Fucked Prophet" was autopublished from this blog. The account was reinstated today, but the link to my drawing was gone.

This is but the shadow of things to come. Islamofascists are overwhelming our borders, but they have long ago overwhelmed our sense of freedom and rationality. Now, even cyberspace has freedom of expression no more.


I feel little sense of loss over the Facebook page itself. Facebook is at best a timewasting trifle, something to spend time on between classes or when bored. But the PRINCIPLE of the thing is what matters; that I should be allowed to post images critical of Islam. This proved too much for the cowardly fucks at Facebook.


Now, as a believer in free enterprise, I wholeheartedly defend Facebook's RIGHT to deem my post unacceptable and to pretty much do whatever the fuck they want with their own pages, they OWN the thing, after all. In the same way I retain MY right to vehemently disagree with them and to call them a bunch of cowering, sniveling, brainless fucktards bowing to an even worse rabble of violent, freedomhating criminals called islamists and their criminally stupid, politically correct allies.


A bunch of you convinced (read: bullied) me into starting a Facebook account back in January. I've now seen the true face of the cunts running the place, and I gladly take my leave of the bastards. But the struggle for our liberties continues. If you believe in true freedom of expression - not just in saying the safe, conformist crap, or in posting your various mafia war idiocies or who gave you a cybergift and whoop-de-fuckin-doo... you will pause and consider this. The fuckers came for me because of a DRAWING. How long before they censor something YOU care about?

Everybody Draw Muhammed Day

Today is the international "Draw Muhammed" day, but since I'm lazy and can't draw to save my life, I will simply make yet another re-run of my (in)famous work of art, "Muhammed The Ass Fucked Prophet, here seen impaled on a Halliburton gas pipe". Enjoy!

I am Lars Vilks II

In solidarity with the Swedish cartoonist Lars Vilks, I am hereby reprinting the caricature that started the whole fascist violence drama: A drawing showing the "prophet" Muhammed as a dog.



I would also like to remind everyone that May 20th is international "Everybody Draw Muhammed Day", and encourage all of you to make your own artistic contribution.