vote as to whether or not the fireman was taking his life in his hands by using water to put out a "grease fire." The grill seems to have survived to ruin chicken another day, although I now believer that we are too ignorant collectively to be trusted with fire. At least the two State Troopers had a good laugh explaining things to our neighbors.
So, it was only a matter of time before we would learn that Amazon's Kindle had some sort of assholic hidden process for keeping a stranglehold on the content it displays. They mistakenly sold e-books that weren't properly licensed, so they went into the Kindle memories of the people who had bought the books, and deleted them without a how-do-you-do. I'll give you three guesses which author had his e-books dropped down the memory e-hole. E-George E-Orwell.
Amazon did give refunds, which was awfully nice of them. I wonder if they're going to have staffers in their Seattle and NYC offices break into the homes of local customers who bought the "unauthorized" print copies of the books, reclaim them and leave refund checks. That would be cool -- Amazon employees are higher than UPS drivers but lower than clowns on my people-I-wish-I-could-legally-shoot-just-once list.
Extra-value irony: I was going to link to the WALL STREET JOURNAL article where I read about this, but it's already been archived behind a subscription wall. The page even auto-refreshed itself to show just the typical two-paragraph teaser, so I can't even read the full piece from my browser's cache. Class, nothing but class; I really, really want to give the WSJ my money now!
By the way "Eeyorewell" is a band or Web-site name that someone who's not me has to take and use immediately. Thanks for noticing that what's in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle.
Also, from now on I'm going to pronounce "s/he/it" as "shee-it" and I think you should, too.
Come to think of it, the spotted-dick can would be hilariously effective for birth control next to my bed, either as a recptacle for condoms or just as a visual deterrent to interested women who somehow manage to clear enough of my psyche's gauntlet to reach my bedroom's doorway. Actually, forget the see-if-s/he-unlocks-your-car-door nonsense; I just discovered a much better litmus test for you miserable people who are looking for a quality spouse: One can of Spotted Dick on your bedstand. You're welcome.
(p.s. You can also thank me for not making a joke about how if you feed a woman enough treacle, she'll be eager to eat spotted dick. De nada, innocent blog visitor.)