I cut and polished most of my car today. Damn near killed myself, too. And that's with the palm polisher, not by hand.

This is what my baby looked like just before she shipped from Japan in September 2001:



She still looks pretty much the same, just carries some advertising thingies. And a few scratches.

They look like this (the advertising thingies, not the scratches):



Of course, the MagikPc is now defunct - it had too many associations with Asswipe for my liking so I told him to stick my domain name up his arse. I used carry the sole vehicle advertising for Asswipe's company, too (for almost three years, just more of that unreimbursed shit he is so damn good at). Well, until Boxing Day last year when I decided I had had enough of being the dumb bitch that did his public promotion for him when he wouldn't badge his own vehicle in case IRD got into him for all the private use he claims for. You know, skiing trips, trips to the airport on his way to his overseas holidays, shit like that.

I do like my baby, she ain't a paint-less bomb like my poor old common whore Commodore was. Damn, but I still miss that car. On the corners. Going fast. In the rain.

Rivetting, huh.

But this baby below; this was a bomb.

Well it burned like one.



This month is the 68th anniversary of the Hindenburg crash, just one, short year after her maiden transatlantic flight and just 10 years after Charles Lindbergh flew the "Spirit of Saint Louis" from New York to Paris.

Haven't we come a long way.

Stupid question, though... if you fly West to East across the International Dateline, aren't you flying backwards through time? I mean, don't you risk arriving before you have left?

I used to really love a good conunn... connunn... er, brianteaser , um puzzle.