Hot Hits With Hans # 2

Written by Hans Öffmeinbürger

Hello mein little dancing pork chops! You know, if there is one thing I enjoy more than dropping funky beats, it is dropping names. Big names. Not big names like Shivnareendipauleeniata Nahaysarayanapyeenington, but big names as in famous big.

So I was recently having lunch with my good friend and fellow international superstar DJ, Carl Cox, and he said to me, Hans, if you were given the chance, which non-musician would you develop into a performing artist and why? And I said Carl, that is a funny thing to say and if I did not know any better I would say that you are giving me a topic for my column. And he said that he had better things to do and didn’t even know I had a column. And I said that if he has time to live in Australia for half the year, he clearly doesn’t have better things to do and almost certainly would know that I have this column and that I was going home to write it, and thanks very much for the topic and the other stuff.

So ja, without further ado, I give you my answer to Carl’s stupid question, and then the rest of the music news.

Ill Kim: Recalcitrant Dictator By Day, Gangsta Rapper By Night

Yes, Dear Leader. Incumbent helmsman of North Korea. Wearer of very gorgeous designer shades. He is my number one choice. An uncompromising, unstable, psychopathic megalomaniac with an inferiority complex – surely a perfect choice for the newest gangsta rapper.

Ill Kim has the potential to undo all the damage done by 50 Cent and his sissy-bottomed perfumed ilk. He epitomises the “I just don’t give a f**k” attitude of the late 2Pac. He has held two middle fingers up to the international community for years. He has the biggest entourage in hip hop, not to mention the most heavily armed – no other rapper can boast of his posse being strapped with nukes.

For his debut album, he would release a homage to NWA’s pioneering album Straight Outta Compton, appropriately titled Straight Outta Pyongyang. Singles would include: Straight Outta Pyongyang, F**k the UN, International Sanctions Iz Advised, and Express Yourself (In A Manner Deemed Acceptable By The Behaviour Ministry).

Okay, very good, now here is Hans with the rest of the music news, achtung!


GOD SEEKS ROYALTIES FOR SMILE PUT UPON YOUR FACE

Coldplay’s lawyers are being kept busy by yet another influx of plagiarism claims. If Joe Satriani and Yusuf Islam’s accusations weren’t enough, the following artists have now made official complaints (via MTV’s hit new show Yo Dawg, You Ganked My Beatz) that the pasty-faced British moaners have ripped their tunes off: Richard Marx, Vanilla Ice, Sixpence None The Richer, Sir Mixalot, No Limit, Danni Minogue, Haddaway, Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass, PM Dawn, Peter Andre, Joey Fatone, Utah Saints, Kanye West, and Gwyneth Paltrow. Paltrow however later admitted her claim was made out of spite after Chris Martin greedily ate the last of their alfalfa.

CORONIAL INVESTIGATION TO CONFIRM IF CURIOSITY KILLED CAT

Isolated pockets of the music industry were briefly saddened this week after learning that one of the Pussycat Dolls was tragically killed after becoming entangled in her fishnet stockings. It wasn’t the one that sings, so no great loss I suppose.

In a startling example of the drastic cost-cutting being undertaken by record companies, the Dolls’ label Interscope held the funeral concurrently with a talent quest to find a replacement. Ryan Seacrest hosted the show and also read the eulogy.

THE HATS, THEY ARE A SUEING

Bob Dylan can expect a court date later this year. He faces a multi-million dollar lawsuit in the wake of an acrimonious split with his former pal and songwriting partner - his hat. Bob Dylan’s hat is seeking an undisclosed amount of damages and song writing royalties, however legal experts expect the bill to run into the hundreds of millions if upheld by the court.

Other notable musical hats are said to be taking a keen interest in proceedings and any precedents that may be set. Jamiroquai and Badly Drawn Boy are believed to have already engaged lawyers as a precaution.

DIAGNOSIS: YOU’RE MOVING LIKE A TORTOISE, FULL OF RIGUEUR MORTIS

In a case of life imitating art, or something, hip hop pioneer Dr Dre is now a fully qualified GP and has opened his own practice in downtown Compton, Los Angeles. Lesser known hip hop medical practitioner, Dr Octagon, is the other doctor in residence, whilst former Jurassic 5 DJ, Cut Chemist, is understood to be the only pharmacist qualified to fill prescriptions.

The LAPD are said to be taking a keen interest in Dr Dre’s alternative therapy, after a man suffering from a suspected case of athlete’s foot was prescribed “Seagram’s gin, two fat ass blunts, and some fly bitches to vibe on.”

WHAT’S IN A NAME? NOT ENOUGH, SAYS GOVERNMENT

United States Homeland Security Chief, Janet Napolitano, has vowed that no one is exempt from tough new anti-terror identification legislation passed in the US Senate this week. Performing artists that are currently known by single names (Madonna, Sting, Barney etc.) will be forced to revert to their legal monikers at all times.

Napolitano has not ruled out widening the legislation to cover abbreviated (J.Lo) or grossly extended (Snoop Doggy Dogg) pseudonyms. Users of multiple names will also be targeted. In a year where the economic crisis forced him to relinquish his private jet, the news is surely to come as a crushing blow for Puff Daddy/P.Diddy/Puffy/Diddy/P.Dizzle/D.Piffy/Diddly Puff Puffy Wuff Wuff.

Bassist and professional sell-out, Sting, has announced he intends to mount a legal challenge against the ruling, claiming “This is an attack on honest, hardworking citizens who prefer not to be restricted by cumbersome two-word names.” He denied it had anything to do with his recent endorsement deal with Jaguar, which saw the singer change his name by deed poll to Jaguar S-Type.

Klaus Leutehersteller: Harmlessly Obscure German Industrialist or Merchant of Death?

Written by Nataliya Dmitrieva

Media outlets are remarkably comparable to exclusive fashion houses. They are staffed by an assortment of egomaniacs who must sell a particular product in order to feed their addictions to various substances. On the face of it, clothing and news stories worthy of being published are entirely dissimilar entities. But like an ageing supermodel trying to maintain some semblance of a career and public image, you just have to dig through a couple of layers of makeup to find the wrinkles and Botox scars.

Climate change. Swine flu. Jordan and Peter Andre splitting. These are media fashions masquerading as genuine news, page turners and button clickers, fodder for the erudite discussion at the water cooler, topics that will be forgotten by next season as quickly as one makes the decision not to wear those Capri pants that were Oh My GOD! so hot last year.

When it comes to fashion and the media, time has a way of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Capri pants and unnecessarily exposed cankles may pass, but jeans will always be cool. Polar caps will freeze, pigs will become healthy, Peter Andre and Jordan will reunite when they receive a high enough offer for an exclusive magazine photo spread of their tearfully joyful reunion, but I’ve only seen one recurring news story this season that has a level of cool and potential for perpetuity equitable with that of jeans.

Somali pirates.

Self-proclaimed pirate experts claim that they’re not real pirates. I strongly disagree. While they may not have wooden legs, parrots and swords, the general principles of piracy are there. Seize control of a ship on the high seas by way of force and obtain riches (or “trayzure”) by whatever means necessary. I didn’t hear anyone complaining at the height of Napster’s piracy fame that it was staffed by bespectacled nerds who didn’t have an eye patch or sea shanty between them.

It is easy to get caught up in the sexy image of bad boys in ragged army fatigues, wielding AK-47s and rocket launchers, zooming about in go fast boats in pursuit of hapless Norwegian oil tankers. This seemingly endless stream of well equipped bandits of the high seas raises an interesting question – in a country beset by widespread famine and civil war, a country that boasts an average male life expectancy of 47 years – where are all these amphibious outlaws coming from?

Mogadishu? Hargeisa? Kismayo? Curiously, the point of origin of almost 80% of current Somali pirates is much further afar – a relatively nondescript building in an industrial estate in Düsseldorf.

In what many mentally diseased capitalist pigs would consider the finest example of globalisation and the free market, relatively unknown yet exceedingly wealthy German industrialist Klaus Leutehersteller has been producing batch after batch of Somali pirates for the past year or so.

It is a queer notion: a German supplying a distant African nation with formidably armed aqua bandits. He is an odd character though, and to truly understand the Klaus Leutehersteller story, one must first examine the humble roots of this understated trailblazer of people manufacturing.

Born in Stuttgart in 1955, Leutehersteller was an only child to father Dieter and mother Klaudia. Both were stern believers in the virtues of industriousness: his mother was a respected geneticist, his father an eminent robotics expert; each was considered to be well ahead of their time. They have since passed away, but their legacy of the augmentation of what we regard as life lives on in their son.

After graduating from the University of Leipzig in 1989 with an impressive collection of PhDs, Leutehersteller took a job with Münchencyborgindustrien Verbunden as lead motion technician. Disillusioned with what he saw as inefficient business practices and a misguided focus on the novelty end of the industry, Leutehersteller resigned after just six months, vowing to use his skills for a more beneficial purpose.

It was with little fanfare that Leutehersteller’s fledgling company, Leutelösungen, was launched in 1991. Based in the same unremarkable premises as they are currently located in, Leutelösungen quietly went about their business, even if at the time very few were of the precise nature of their operations.

By autumn of 1993, it was a different story. Leutelösungen was a homegrown success, having taken just two years to morph from a moderately anonymous company into the number one supplier of parking inspectors to all major German municipalities.

Leutehersteller had become incredibly wealthy and enjoyed widespread recognition in the notoriously cliquey Deutsche Alternative Herstellungsliga. He was given the key to Düsseldorf, and briefly dated film star Brigitte Schittenhelm. Life was good, but it was not enough for Leutehersteller.

Having mastered the previously daunting parking inspector algorithm, Leutelösungen turned their attention to other opportunities for mass production of niche individuals. Stunning the industry yet again, they turned out highly successful lines of tram conductors, street sweepers and taxi drivers.

The notoriously insatiable Leutehersteller remained far from convinced of his undeniable genius, questioning the worth and cultural relevance of his creations. At the turn of the century, he vanished. Leutelösungen continued to churn out their invaluable products, however rumours abounded about the whereabouts of their founder.

Observers pondered whether Leutehersteller had developed a taste for slightly more colourful products, a theory supported by the CIA’s brief listing of him as a person of interest. Insiders at the CIA suggested Leutehersteller was suspected of manufacturing Colombian rebels and having them dropped from cargo planes directly into combat zones where American operatives were fighting alongside the Colombian army.

This paved the way for yet more spurious and unsubstantiated rumours. He was accused of producing and transporting armed mercenaries to no less than 13 separate conflicts between 2001 and 2007: Colombian drug rebels, Georgian separatists and Tamil Tigers were but a few of the allegations made against Leutehersteller. While no charges were ever brought, mud sticks; his current range of products do nothing to dispel the rumours that dogged him during his self-imposed exile in the early 21st century.

Pirates seem an odd choice for a man who has made a name for himself by producing individuals that are ostensibly nothing more than obedient servants. Assuming the rumours surrounding his foray into the black market were true, it too produced a series of acquiescent lackeys, even if they were better armed than his range of taxi drivers.

So why pirates? In a recent interview with Deutscher Automatismus Monats, long time business associate Gunter Fenstermacher suggested that Leutehersteller had grown weary of churning out what he saw as simplistic creations. He yearned to manufacture sentient beings that thrived upon anarchy, sought riches by whatever means necessary and answered only to themselves. With global pirate stocks vastly depleted and cocky sea captains becoming increasingly complacent, Leutehersteller saw his opportunity and took full advantage of it.

If there were worries within Leutelösungen that the pirates would be a failure, their fears were allayed within days of the first batch being transported to Bremerhaven port. In a bittersweet success for the company, the pirates seized control of the ship en route to the Gulf of Aden and demanded a hefty ransom. Leutehersteller reportedly greeted the news with a wry smile, promptly wiring the ransom to the pirates and adding a 10% gratuity.

The machine from which Leutehersteller’s creations emerge is understandably shrouded in secrecy. In the same interview with Deutscher Automatismus Monats, Gunter Fenstermacher remained coy, but noted that the machine uses the principles of advanced thermodynamics, molecule reassignment and basic cold fusion, contains purple and blue lasers, an industrial sewing machine, macro nano technology, epidermal multi-layering, a digital tack inserter, and a series of levers and pulleys.

The astonishing effectiveness of the Somali pirates has captivated the world, and only time will tell if widespread media coverage and increased outrage from various maritime bodies will render the pirates and their creator victims of their own success. At the time of writing, they held no less than 17 cargo ships, a Japanese scientific whale research vessel (and two Humpback whales), three offshore oil rigs, and the set from Kevin Costner’s Waterworld.

In an ironic twist, the stubborn, traditionalist captains of the very ships that the pirates attack are possibly the only thing preventing them from being sent to a watery grave by any number of warships lurking in the area. Shunning armed assistance, the captains insist upon battling the pirates the old fashioned way – scimitar duels on the poop deck. This is indeed an ill-advised decision considering the arsenal of automatic weapons and explosives their adversaries are equipped with.

Perhaps it is fortuitous that the captains share such admirable naivety. Should various foreign powers be given the authority to neutralise the pirates and destroy the fledgling industry, the consequences would be dire. Somalia’s economy would collapse entirely, conceivably taking with it the nation’s best chance of recovery in decades.

More concerning though would be Leutehersteller’s reaction. It is highly unlikely that he would return to what he sees as the drudgery of producing the common man, however profitable that may be. He has proven on numerous occasions precisely what his genius is capable of creating. He has joked privately about producing an army of crocodile/human hybrids with the ability to shoot lasers from their eyes. Forcing him underground could potentially spur him to unleash a horror that all the warships in the world would not be capable of thwarting. World leaders may like to consider the fact that when it comes to a manageable and relatively harmless problem such as Somali pirates, it may well be better the buccaneer you know.

Queries & Qualms Of The Great Unwashed # 3: Special Toilet Humour Edition

When Queries & Qualms of the Great Unwashed was launched with great fanfare as a semi-regular feature mere months ago, very few of us thought that it would morph into a hugely popular series of culturally relevant and extremely well worded essays garnering vast respect from the international academic community. Indeed, we were indisputably precise in our prediction.

It is the political backbencher of Mobar Gazette articles, a substitution called upon when all the star players have suffered crippling injuries, an inclusion by default, a last resort. It demands no more than a couple of hundred words from each columnist. It is code for an entire magazine staff bereft of imagination and sobriety.

Like vodka that solidifies if placed in a freezer, it is cheap, nasty, and leaves a disgusting taste in one’s mouth after consumption. The gutter is too fine a place for this insult to legitimate literature – it belongs in a place where waste that is too foul for rubbish bins begins its journey into malodorous oblivion. Accordingly, we dedicate this edition of Q & QOTGU to our humble and trustworthy friend - the toilet.


Dear Mobar Gazette,

I recently took the plunge and moved into an apartment with my girlfriend. She’s a pretty special lady, but since we’ve been living together she’s really been on my case about my leaving the toilet seat up. What’s the deal with that? Should I put it down after I use it or what?

Sincerely,

Glen Postelthwaite, Idaho

Hi Glen,

Frankly, as a woman I’ve never really understood this argument, despite the fact that it seems to polarise almost every toilet user. It seems simple enough – women want the seat down, men want it up. Women seem to be the only ones who complain about the arduous task of moving the seat 45 degrees though, presumably because they lack the conviction and upper arm strength of men.

You are at the precipice of commitment here, Glen, and you have a big decision to make. Start putting the toilet seat down, thus setting a precedent for this slapper to walk all over you for the rest of your life. Alternatively, tell her that it really bugs you when she doesn’t leave the toilet seat up and if she was any kind of woman, she’d shut her mouth and hurry up with your steak dinner.

Hope this helps,

Nataliya Dmitrieva


Dear Sir/Madam,

There is a blockage in my toilet. I have purchased a toilet plunger, but I am at a loss as how exactly it is used to remove the blockage from my toilet. How does it work?

Yours, etc.

Antoine Bidet, Paris

Salut Antoine,

The toilet plunger is a complicated contraption, but once mastered, it is a pleasure to use and a life skill well worth noting on one’s curriculum vitae. A common mistake made by plunger novices is to attempt to extract the blockage by placing the plunger in the toilet bowl and thrusting it repeatedly to loosen the obstruction.

Rather, the correct method is to grip the top of the wooden handle in your left hand, then carefully place the rubber cup over your mouth and nose. This masks any unpleasant odours and allows the user to enjoy the sweet aroma of industrial rubber.

Once the plunger is secured on your face, submerge your right hand in the toilet bowl and venture upstream until you reach the cause of the blockage. Use whatever means necessary to dislodge the obstruction, then remove and thoroughly wash your right hand.

Kind regards,

Eoinín McAlpine



To Whom It May Concern,

When in friendly company, I often find excusing myself to use the facilities for a more substantial reason than urination somewhat difficult. Is there perhaps a euphemism I could use without resorting to unnecessary coarseness or vulgarity?

Chooka Robinson, Cranbourne


Dearest Chooka,

One of the following alternatives should suffice. Excuse me for a few minutes, I am going to: deliver the federal budget, sell an endowment policy, write a column for the Daily Mail, engage a personal injury lawyer, write Nickelback’s next album, or my personal favourite – I’m just going to go and recite some dialogue from Pearl Harbour.

All the best,

Logan Bluetooth


Hullo Chaps,

What is, in your opinion, the minimum amount of ply required in toilet tissue?

Regards,

Alison Dungaree, West Swampington


Hai Alison,

Anything less than four ply is a gross insult to the sanctity of your nether regions.

Yours truly,

Katsuki Akimoto




Sirs,

When urinating in public houses, I am often unsure as to the appropriate behaviour when sharing a urinal with other gentlemen. Please advise.

Regards,

Richard Moorcock, Tinselthwaite Downs


Good Afternoon Richard,

Contrary to popular opinion, group urination should not be treated as an awkward social situation that one must exit from as soon as possible. It is a solemn, male bonding experience.

Your should congratulate your peers on the strength of their streams, and comment favourably upon the stench and hue of their emissions. Laugh boisterously if you are able to move any of the urinal cakes. At the conclusion of your emanations, a hearty pat on the back is encouraged.

Sincerely,

Alik Dmitriev



Dear Mr File,

How many bottles of vodka can be hidden in a toilet cistern before the flushing mechanism becomes noticeably affected?

Kind regards,

Louise de Souse, Vancouver

Louise,

What do you mean, “Dear Mr File”? Why have I been singled out as the in-house authority on hiding spirits in toilets? Do I give the impression that I am somehow more ridden with vice than the rest of the staff here? Am I often sighted on park benches, guzzling from bottles in brown paper bags? Am I touching strangers inappropriately, shouting at rubbish bins and vomiting in telephone booths? How dare you.

In answer to your question, twelve bottles.

Yours fabulously,

Peter File

I Like Children, But I Couldn't Eat A Whole One

Written in a drunken stupor by Peter File

Whitney Houston once sang “I believe the children are our future”, presumably because “I believe sharing a drug habit with Bobby Brown is my future” contained too many syllables and would have been a chillingly accurate self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever her reasons, I bet the children whom Whitney was singing about were normal ones. You know the sort - grubby little urchins with a fondness for ribbon candy, hula hoops, and marbles. The kind that frolic without a care in the world, making mud pies and daisy chains, and running home crying when they graze their knees or elbows.

She was almost certainly not singing about the kind of freakish super child that is accepted into Mensa when they’re barely two years old.

You read that right. The British chapter of the best known high-IQ society in the world last week accepted a two year old into its ranks. The little scamp scored a staggering 156 on her IQ test.

You may be impressed, but I can tell you that when you stagger into work after a 72 hour bender with an Olsen twin, pick up the newspaper and discover that a child is cleverer than you were even before you started going on 72 hour benders with Olsen twins – that kind of revelation can be particularly soul destroying.

I read the article again and again, hoping that the cocktail of cocktails still doing the backstroke in my bloodstream were somehow distorting the words on the page. After asking three sober colleagues to read it out to me and witnessing their similarly despondent reactions, I genuinely began to concede that I was possibly stupider than a two year old.

Ignoring the Mobar Gazette charter, I attempted to sober up. Ignoring the Mobar Gazette charter yet again, I decided to do some research. I resolved to get to the bottom of exactly how this little cretin had wowed the Mensa boffins, and if it transpired that it was true, I would begin following the Mobar Gazette charter again, and assassinate the absolute hell out of this kid’s character.

So, what can this nappy-clad Einstein lay claim to having mastered? Firstly, the phonetic alphabet. Not really much of a claim there. I can recite the phonetic alphabet. Hell, even cops can recite the phonetic alphabet. I instantly felt a little better. This wasn’t as bravo alpha delta as I had first thought.

The next claim was that she could count to ten in Spanish. Spanish, for the love of vodka. It’s not exactly Russian or Icelandic, is it now? If I’m not mistaken, woefully painful and talentless American pop punk outfit The Offspring count to six in Spanish in the intro to Pretty Fly For A White Guy. I’m sure if the time signature had allowed it, they could have pooled their collective grey matter and struggled to ten.

What else? She possesses the awesome ability to name different types of triangle. All three of them. Stunning. I suppose there’s not much else to do once you’ve mastered all the different types of squares and circles.

Not content with threatening the careers of triangle aficionados and Spanish numeracy experts, the tiny rocket scientist in waiting can read “mummy” and “daddy” and spell her name aloud. Spare me. I spelt my first and last name aloud last night. Not amazing at first glance, but considering that I was on the wrong side of my second pitcher of mojitos and under pressure to perform for an increasingly impatient member of the constabulary, I think we can chalk this one up as another win over our alleged whiz kid.

The more pedantic amongst you are probably having a fit by this stage, infuriated by what you may consider rather cheap point scoring off a defenceless infant. You are no doubt gesticulating wildly at the twenty tonne white elephant over there in the corner – her IQ of one hundred and fifty bloody six.

Frankly, that worried me. How could I possibly discredit such a result? Well, amazed by the wealth of material that this newfound ally “research” had afforded me, I dug a little deeper. I learnt that Mensa uses the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scale to rate the suitability of new members, and a fine scale it is too.

The bad news for Miss Smartypants is that the test is scored by comparing how the test taker performs compared with other people of the same age. Going by Mensa standards, this means that she outperformed 98% of other two year olds who have attempted the test. Other two year olds. Other two year olds, who would have a fair stab at drawing a really terrible picture of a cat in between sucking their thumb and soiling themselves.

Her ability to spell her own name would therefore put her light years ahead of her peers. In fact, spelling her own name would score so highly on the test that she could and probably did draw farm animals as the answer to every other question on the test.

As remarkable as this story may initially appear, one can’t help but consider one deeply troubling fact. This news was brought to us by a journalist. Entrusting a journalist with the task of reporting the truth is akin to asking a Rottweiler to guard a Scotch fillet. In between their morning belt of Johnnie Walker and their luncheon of chardonnay and peach schnapps, a journalist generally has to justify their existence by turning in a story. TODDLER SPELLS OWN NAME, DRAWS CAT doesn’t exactly compel one to buy a newspaper, does it?

To prove my point, when this story first surfaced, it was claimed that this Edisonette could name almost all the capital cities of the world. The next day, it was half the capital cities. The day after, she could manage 35. By next week, if presented with a globe, she may just be able to identify which planet she is from. The latest reports have downgraded her ability from being able to rattle off the phonetic alphabet to the paltry achievement of reciting the English alphabet.

So perhaps our pint sized genius has learnt something from this past week or two that her dim-witted peers may take decades to fathom. If you’ve got something important to share with the world, don’t let it fall into the grubby alcoholic hands of someone who has the resources and motives to transform a couple of pig farmers feeling a bit unwell into a world-ending pandemic.

Haute Torture: Designer Clothing For Freedom Haters

Written with ardent fervour by Logan Bluetooth

There comes a time during any dinner party – generally following the Crème Brûlée and somewhere between the fourth or fifth bottle of ’68 Latour – where there is a slight lull in the conversation. You’ve updated each other on all your latest mergers and acquisitions, newly conquered sexual partners, or perhaps you’re just too busy digesting dinner to contribute much more than a series of satisfied grunts.

That leaves you with silence. Horrible, horrible silence.

When it comes to dinner parties, silence is the cousin of death. Silence allows guests a window of opportunity to make their flimsy excuses and hightail it out of there before you have a chance to ply them with triple Cosmopolitans and cajole them into a game of Strip Trivial Pursuit.

As a seasoned dinner party host, one would presume that the lull is my worst nightmare after forks being placed the wrong way up on the table. Au contraire - I adore the lull and can barely contain my glee when it arrives.

The reason for this is that this otherwise uncomfortable respite presents one with the perfect opportunity kick start the conversation by casually bringing up any number of conversational topics normally considered taboo when in friendly company. Abortion. Religion. Politics. Capital punishment. Peter Andre.

You could build a fence topped with hundreds of those fancy Shiatsu massage chairs, but good luck getting anyone to sit on it if you lob one of the aforementioned verbal grenades into a crowd of people. They demand strident participation from even the most snivelling little twerp hell bent on making inoffensive comments and neutrality their modus operandi.

You can add one more topic to that inflammable list – torture.

Torture has popped up a fair bit lately. Certain members of a certain former administration have made certain comments regarding certain interrogation tactics. The usual media buzzwords have been tossed about: waterboarding, deprivation of liberties, gross human rights abuses, blah blah blah.

My guess is that you gloss over these articles and, just like the liberal media wants you to, you say to yourself “oh, right, torture is bad, waterboarding is inhumane, close Guantanamo, got it.”

Luckily for you, I’ve done some research on the topic and am more than happy to assist you in forming a far more coherent and informed opinion on the subject so that you’re not embarrassed by your lack of knowledge when this comes up at your next dinner party.

You don’t want to be the only one confused as to why being towed on a board behind a speed boat has ceased to be a moderately popular water sport and suddenly become a much maligned CIA interrogation technique.

I may come across as a somewhat self-serving individual, bothered by very little other than his own bank balance, and I suppose that’s right. But if there’s one thing Logan Bluetooth understands and loves, it’s results. Especially if they’re presented in a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet and graph.

I love results because you can’t argue with them. Statistics and results are the currency of honesty, or something. You can’t warp or twist them for your own purposes. Here’s a result for you to ponder – since 9/11 and the subsequent inception of enthusiastic querying of terror suspects, there hasn’t been a single terrorist attack on American soil. Coincidence? Luck? Hardly.

Put yourself in the shoes of a terrorist for a moment. I know they don’t wear shoes (apart from that guy with the exploding shoes), but just play along here. Put yourself in a vest of explosives or something. Anyway, you’re plotting your next attack on the axis of freedom, trying to pick a suitable country. Now - do you go for the one run by a bunch of pansies that adhere to various sissy UN treaties, or do you go for the one that makes up its own rules and reserves the right to subject terror suspects to heavy beatings, sleep deprivation, waterboarding, Celine Dion records played at full volume, vicious attack dogs, electrodes, and the occasional bit of sodomy?

You know the answer. The schoolyard bully doesn’t pick on the muscular captain of the sporting team. He beats the living suitcase out of the bespectacled nerd whose only reaction is to take the beating and cry to the principal instead of doing what he should have done a long time ago – shoot the bully in the kneecaps, pulverise his fingers and toes with the nearest rock, then put a cigarette lighter to various extremities until he cries and promises to never touch a nerd again.

Arguments against torture are baseless and perpetuated by those that have a tenuous grasp on reality. They claim that confessions gleaned from spirited questioning sessions are unreliable and generally only forthcoming because the questionee fears for their own life. Please. While some interviewees may be rendered spiritually dead (spiritually dead…I can’t believe I actually typed that without vomiting), nobody physically dies from torture, so what are they really afraid of? The truth, and the consequences of truth, that’s what.

Perhaps the most spurious charge levelled at torture is that innocent individuals can somehow find themselves on the business end of an electric cattle prod simply for sharing a funny name or bearing a likeness to person of interest, or just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Of course. How plausible. I’m sorry, this isn’t my AK-47 and Little Jihandbook of Terror, I was just holding it for another chap that was planning to strike at the heart of liberty and everything sacred that you believe in, you filthy infidel prick.

Those captured and detained for terror related offences are clearly up to no good. It’s not as though one accidentally wanders into an Al-Qaeda training camp to ask for directions to the nearest McDonalds and happens to get pinched by the feds at that very moment. One is judged by the company that one keeps, and if one insists on being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people doing the wrong things then one must accept the consequences.

Debating the merits of torture invariably brings up a question that I am rapidly becoming weary of answering – do the ends justify the means? In a word – yes. In more words – yes, you spineless, protest organising, freedom hating, dirty stinking hippy ingrate.

Jack Nicholson, or Tom Cruise, I don’t remember who it was exactly and it doesn’t really matter because this isn’t about cheap broads or kooky Scientology practices, but it was probably Jack Nicholson because Tom Cruise is a bit of a knob – anyway, one of them said “I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.”

Terrorists only understand two languages – Middle Easternese, and Terror. There aren’t many people in the western world who are able to speak Middle Easternese, but we’ve got plenty of government agents who can speak fluent Terror. Remember this – you can’t spell interrogation without pretty much all of the letters in terror.

As a great patriot once said, national intelligence is an art, not a science. And just as Da Vinci and Michelangelo created masterpieces with their delicate brush strokes, the modern day Renoirs of the CIA have created their very own works of art in interrogation rooms, deftly weaving their own artistic tools (blindfolds, hoses, attack dogs and electrodes) to produce confessions worthy of exhibition in the Louvre. Viva la renaissance.