Baiting

Ever woken up like a bear with a sore head? Well look on the bright side, at least you didn't wake up with a bear with a sore head in its mouth. Your head to be precise. Like this woman:

You see it could always be worse. Stories like this aren't actually that interesting I realise, as it's just another 'wild animal does something wild' article. Not really news. The last time one leapt out at me was when a killer whale killed its trainer at Sea World, and the press reported everyone's surprise. Why were they surprised? If it was called a cuddle whale, or a long walks on the beach at sunset whale I could understand but it's a killer whale. Are they equally amazed when they get stung by a stinging nettle? Anyway, the reason I am thrusting this under your nose is because of the accompanying image. It shows a park ranger setting a trap to catch the bear.

So if you were to catch a bear, what would you use as bait? Peanut butter? A lady bear? A picnic basket? No, you erect a tent in front of it. How obvious! After all, if you wanted to lure a paedophile into a large metal trailer, you'd build a playground in front of it wouldn't you. Well, this is the same idea. Brilliant! True you'd end up with a  few stray ramblers looking for a cup of tea, but you can't make an omelette without breaking a few legs.

But the real question is why not bait the trap with a mutli-coloured dance floor and play 'Funky Town' over some loudspeakers? After all, everyone knows bears love a dance. I've seen it on the telly.

Bam chika woof woof

It's been a good week if you like stories about men having sex with animals, primarily because there has been one. Hooray! Fingers at the ready, commence pointing:

In case you were in any doubt as to the brilliance of this man's imagination, this is Christie Brinkley:

And this is a great dane:

...sorry...this is a great dane:

I love his apologetic attitude. "I haven't been as energetic lately". Bless him. But why take the dog to a vet? Is he mad?! Clearly they should have gone to couple's counselling.

Sign before the pen's stolen

So in the words of Tom Petty: time to move on. This was/is the first time I've done this on my own so the flat viewing process was markedly different this time around. Primarily because I didn't have anyone to tell me if the place was nice or not. True, I had the letting agent with me but to honest I think they are  little biased. To be a letting agent (as in most sales) you need to be able to turn anything, however negative, into a positive. This was most evident for me when I looked at a flat somewhere and asked what the parking was like.

"Well," said the rental woman "ordinarily there isn't any but you can usually park in the solicitor's office car park across the road from Friday night until Monday as they don't usually work at the weekend. Also, you're in luck at the moment..."
At this point I should add that following her initial suggestion, I wasn't optimistic about the second.
"Why's that?" I said, forgetting that I wasn't being optimistic.
"Yes," she said, mistaking my response for a closed question, "some people have stolen the parking restriction sign on the road, so if you get a ticket you can appeal".
"Oh right. That's useful to know." I said. Offering the handshake of finality, I was conscious of a vein on my forehead throbbing with sarcasm, straining to burst out over her clipboard.

I suppose I can't fault her for trying. It takes a truly optimistic seller to turn the increased local crime-rate into a reason to move into that area. "Lucky for you a lot of thieves have been operating in the area. Will your deposit be cash or cheque?"

...and [click], you're back in the room

Conscience is a funny thing. It's not really, it's essentially guilt thus is rubbish, but of all personality defects, it is one of the more curious. You see, over the last month every time I have stumbled onto the internet and not thought "there's porn here..." I have had a voice in my head saying "you really ought to look for somewhere to live". On the rare occasion that thought wasn't stabbed in the ribs by the voice saying "there's porn here..." I have been doing just that, therefore my bloglets have been like Michael Barrymore's charm: absent. I have now found somewhere to live (hooray) so we're back together again. Hug anyone? No? Oh come on, it's not gay if there's no cupping.