π‘
Whadda they teachin’ the damned kids these days?!?!
The height of the water or pressure head is the kicker.
Assuming they’re the same, and the outlets are identical,
they’ll empty out at the same time.
Won’t they?
Filthie’s Log Of Ease
Thursday, February 26, 2026
Espirit De Corpse
Uh-huh.
Anyways - have you guys updated your accountability lists
for when the revolution or civil war starts?
The vestigial sense of chivalry stirs within me. But it’s short lived. Marie Antoinette had her moment. Elena CeauΕescu had hers. There’s women in this world that need killin’ just like some of the men. This menopausal harridan needs a trip through the wood chipper. Someone sent me an email awhile back. It was a story about how this bint was at a training base back Iraq during the Sandbox Wars. The base came under fire; and the story goes that she had the boys fire up the chopper, load it with antique rugs and souvenirs she’d bought - and then she hopped in and they took off… leaving the squaddies behind to fend for themselves. That’s real Canadian leadershit right there… but who knows? Is the story true? Ya can’t believe anything you see or read these days without checking it first, but I wouldn’t doubt it given her other antics and ideas.
Women have always been a big problem in the Canadian forces. I remember way back when I was just a li’l Filthie in elementary school. We were watching some 8mm film and it showed a clip of our Great Saviour of the time: Pierre Turdo, the prime minister - meeting with the brass to discuss “peace keeping”. One of the senior officers he was meeting with (a general in the RCAF? I can’t remember)… was a woman. She was about 4 feet tall, 4 feet wide and had whiskers.
I sat with the bad kids on the retarded side of the classroom. Beavis asked what in hell was a deformity like that doing in the military. Butthead giggled and said she looked like a troll or a goblin. I laughed and agreed. The people in that meeting looked like characters from a Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon. The teacher got so damned mad that we all had to stay late after school. “It’s not nice to judge people by their looks!!!”
I wish I could go back in time, and sit down with that teacher again as an adult. I’d tell her that officerette in the film was obviously a DEI midget, the Pierre was an effeminate bisexual flimp, that Castro shagged his whore of a wife and was Justin’s biological father and he would grow up to be a lisping bisexual turd brained idiot just like his father.
Aaaand I’d get beaten with a yard stick (the metric system wasn’t invented yet) - and sent to the principal’s office to get strapped! HAR HAR HAR!!! HAR HAR HAR!!!
Ehhhhhhh… HAR HAR HAR! ππ
You Americans really need a 51st state! And us Albertans… we need a fucken country. This one’s an embarrassment. And anyone that signs up to defend it is a sucker.
π
Wednesday, February 25, 2026
The Filthie Doom Scroller
The next generation has failed.
Our race is doomed.
DOOOOOOMED!!!
π
Chutes. Don…initiate the global self destruct sequence.
Abandon all hope.
There is no redemption for us.
π€
These li’l short OyToobs keep popping up on my feed. This lady cooks everyday on that thing and I gotta be careful watching them or I’ll blow my diet and start cooking like she does too.
I wonder how practical it would be to refurb these old friends and put them back to work? When my dishwasher finally croaked I didn’t replace it. A replacement could be cheaply bought from Costco but… they’re cheap garbage and I can do my own damn dishes now that I’m retired. When my drier died after 30 years, I strung up a dryer line down in the Reclusium. I suppose that I’ll be forced to buy another washer though. It’d be a hoot to refurb an old tub style one though.
For domestic chores… they’re cheap garbage way forward seems to amount to taking a few steps back. π
FILTHICUS: Ice Warriors
π€¨
Hrrrmmmppffff!
The roar goes up in the Coliseum as The Big Game proceeds. Somebody goaled on someone else. Tempers flare, egos pop like Rice Krispies. Legions of stupid people celebrate the thrill of victory, or morn the agony of defeat. A big strapping, smiling kid with busted teeth and a bloody grin wraps himself in a flag and hams for the fans and cameras… not sure of my facts here, but I heard that America’s hairy chested female hockeyists took the Gold too - but they are using the occasion to shit on the evil Orange Bastard or something? For our part, I heard that our glorious, virtuous, righteous ice warriors got plushy toys and openly wept after losing?
π
I dunno; I don’t care about the politics, the intrigue, and feuds behind the scenes. To me me it’s all fake and gay and I’ve got better things to do. I ain’t watching it.
Play nice, kids!
Have fun!
Apparently this is fun for people. I was always taught that it’s just a game. Be humble in victory, accept loss with grace. Half the people saying that will flip the board in rage if they lose a game of checkers…
As for me… I’m in serious athletic training today too! I want to try out for the Stubfart Special Olympics Rifle Team. This is real sport! After the rifle competition we all get Gold medals, everyone is special, then we all load up on the short bus and go have supper at Chuck E Cheese! HAR HAR HAR! HAR HAR HAR!
ππ
We’re getting a rogue chinook today so I figger it’s a great time to hit the range. If you Yanks catch a rank fetid stench on the moist warm winds billowing and blowing in from the North… that’ll be me stinking out the firing line with my atrophied marksmanship and gas.
The practice will hopefully manifest itself either at the Stubfart Olympics … or out in the streets when this idiot country tears itself apart and descends into some kind retarded civil war. Let’s stay loose, and keep our feuds and sports separate, eh? On behalf of the future 51st State of Alberta … I’d like to congratulate the Americans on their wins - and apologize for these sore losers in Canada.
π
Tuesday, February 24, 2026
The Lowest Form Of Humour
Awhile back, the world famous explorer, novelist, adventurer, and man about town - WL Emery - gave me some of his old short stories to read. He’s actually one of the few writers that has mastered the art of the short story. It’s been kinda cold and chitty out for the last couple days… so I figured I’d take an amateur’s swing at a short story too, just for fun. Proceed at your own risk.
π
It was a bad day for The Galactic Governor. His workload was incredible and increasing by the moment. Keeping a galaxy full of imbecile races from slitting each others’ thoraxes was exhausting, excruciating work. Egos, greed, treachery… all were both lethal liabilities and/or desirable survival traits depending on who and what was involved. On his plate now was an interstellar political incident involving three races that threatened to blow up into full blown, all out warefare. Billions of lives were at stake. Three of his minds were focused on it…but the fourth noticed the door chime and entrance of his most senior and favorite advisor.
“Hello, Councellor! What brings you to my humble singularity?” the Governor asked. “I trust you’re not here to spike my plasma with metallic hydrogen again…?”
“I wish! But you gotta admit it: that was the best prank pulled since the Big Bang,” the Counsellor chuckled. “I thought you were going to explode when your digestive tract-“
“Not THE best prank, Counsellor… But… definitely in the top ten. Would have been in the top five if you’d done it to somebody else!” Both the entities hooted and whistled with laughter. When they finally settled the Governor sighed in exasperation. “I hate my job, Counsellor. The Retired Races are fed right up with the lower order ones and wanting to erase them. The Mid-Development races are starting to agree with them. Nobody’s giving way, everyone is rattling their weapons and reproductive organs and I am beginning to wish they all just killed each other…”
“Well! Speaking of lower order races... That’s what brings me here, Governor! I’ve got something seriously odd going on way down in the third dimension, Alpha quadrant, current temporal coordinates. Could I ask you to focus all your attention on this for just a moment? Are your audio visual inputs available? I think you’ll want to see this.”
It was an oddity to have the Counsellor speaking to him like this, in this cheerful tone. The Governor looked at his advisor sourly. “Is this another rude joke, Counsellor? Am I going to be belching ionized and super heated vapour for the next couple cycles if I process it?”
“Absolutely! I did too once I dug into it. Shall I put it up, Governor? Or are you too craven to appreciate a good jest?”
The Governor bristled at having his sense of humour challenged. “Alright, Counsellor… but I’m warning you in advance - I am a formidable practical joker myself! And YOU are on my excrement list…”
“Relax, old friend! You’ll like this.”
The Governor was not amused. “Why… I don’t like this at all! That’s EARTH!!! And what in seven hells are ballonheads doing there!?!? We quarantined that planet a long time ago!!! Isn’t it just like those turd balls to go behind our backs and violate the quarantine like this!!! Oh how I want their home planet and colonies scoured with fire for this! I’ll - “
The advisor whistled in merriment. “What’s so funny?!?” the Governor demanded. But the advisor had slumped and was incoherent with helpless laughter. The Governor grew angrier by the second. He was on the brink of losing control of himself when - unannounced - another being materialized in his singularity. “Great,” he thought to himself. “The balloon headed ambassador… just what I need right now!”
“Governor! Counsellor!!! Oh!!! So - you’ve seen this?!?” He said, referencing the archaic transmission they had been watching. “My people are demanding the identity of the authors of this slanderous, libellous defamation AT ONCE!!! And an immediate apology and retraction! Rest assured, we will demand financial reparations too! The perpetrators of this filth MUST be found and punished! It’s an insult to our empirical honour and dignity!!!”
The Councellor collapsed again into gales of whistling. His merriment was contagious to the Governor. The raging ballon headed ambassador filling his pantaloons with rage was almost more fun than he could take. But somehow he maintained diplomatic composure. Ballon heads were notoriously arrogant and conceited, which made them exceptional targets for sporting humour from less serious beings.
“This is the first I’ve heard or seen of it, Ambassador. And like you…I’m appalled at the effrontery being shown here. Perhaps my Counsellor would care to enlighten us? How is it, Mr. Counsellor, that the galaxy’s most dignified and serious race - is being portrayed as foolish buffoons and clowns performing on some obscure backwater planet - one which this Office publicly quarantined long ago? And what can you tell us of the locals?”
It WAS odd, the Governor mused to himself. The idea of the haughty, pretentious balloon heads slumming in the lower dimensions? Telling bad jokes? That WAS funny! He tried to clamp down on it…but his laughter slipped out, and the Counsellor dissolved into merriment and mirth all over again. The Ambassador for his part, was on the verge of losing control of himself as well. His face was black with fury. And - almost of its own volition, his hand descended and gripped his ceremonial sidearm. To be mocked by lesser beings such as these was intolerable. Didn’t they realize that the majority of the races in the galaxy didn’t have this so-called “sense of humour”? By his own people’s standards - he was now legally justified if he burned both these laughing idiots down to ash with his weapon.
The Governor noticed and immediately tried to mollify the enraged diplomat. “I’m sincerely sorry for our outbursts, Ambassador! Please - stay your hand and spare us? Can I please offer you a smoke? And a drink..? Perhaps my foolish and irreverent Counsellor will regain his decorum? He might also explain himself and this scandalous transmission from a quarantined planet. Which, by the way, is hosting an early space faring race? One that should have had absolutely no concept or contact with extra terrestrial races?”
The Councillor smirked as he poured the drinks - with an extra-large one for himself, the Governor noted with irritation. At least he’d gotten control of himself and regained some dignity and professionalism. He opened the Governor’s humidor and passed out some Rigellian cigars, rudely helping himself to a few extra… and offered a light to the Ambassador, who also calmed slightly after a draft of the soothing smoke.
“I apologize for the Councillor’s foolish breach of etiquette, Ambassador, and thank you for your patience and forebearance as we dig into this incident. Perhaps the good Councellor can shed some light on this scandal? It seems to raise many serious questions we need to delve into. Please play through the transmission again, Councellor - is there any further additional information for us to consider?”
****
After the transmission had been played through again, the Governor, Councellor and Ambassador swirled their drinks as they cogitated on what they’d seen. “Thank you Counsellor. I find it odd that this species seems to be showing an advanced sense of humour. Are they displaying any other signs of advanced development?”
“Certainly, sir. But before I begin - does anyone need their drink topped up? No? I guess I’ll drink alone then! May I compliment you on your fine taste in spirits, Governor? And your hospitality, of course!” He drained his second drink, and then placed the glass firmly down on the Governor’s desk. “Focus, Mr. Councillor!” the Governor chided, “some of us have other chores to attend to! Get on with it!”
“Now then,” The Counsellor began, slightly miffed, “this world is home to simian bipeds. Their planet is largely a water world, their technology is pre-interstellar at best. At first glance they’re just another unremarkable sentient species.” The likeness of a foolish looking grinning male human flashed up on the holo.
“Their star is similarly unremarkable, and as per interstellar law, they’ve been quarantined while they are in this critical stage of cultural development. Odds are almost exactly even: shortly, they’re going to either blow themselves up with the rudimentary technologies and science they’ve developed - or they are going to master reality, light, quantum mechanics, artificial intelligence-“
“Oh come now, Mr. Counsellor,” the Ambassador interrupted, “These guys?” he said, gesturing contemptuously at the sim of the human male. “They surely can’t be anymore than tool using super apes! Why are we even discussing this? We should destroy them for their lack of civilized respect for their betters!”
“Please, Mr. Ambassador - if I may continue?” The Counsellor asked. Without waiting for permission, he plunged ahead. “I agree that these people are unremarkable and verge on cultural and intellectual retardation, gentlebeings. But: those strange quantum fluctuations that made the local 7th dimensional vicinity unstable, recently? That was these guys - they’re messing around with quantum computers, relativistic particle accelerators, cold fusion… and will soon hack the power of light, space and time just as we have.”
“Governor - we simply can’t let disrespectful monkeys like these develop and play with energies like that!” the Ambassador said, raising his voice. “I’ve heard enough! I’m going to tell my leaders to slag this planet at once. If you won’t act, we will!!! Furthermore -urrrrkkkk!!!”
“Silence!” the Governor roared. “Mr. Ambassador, you will hold your tongue, and I will hold you in stasis while the Councellor speaks! You will remain in partial stasis while my Counsellor finishes his presentation. One more outburst like that - and you go into full stasis and get shipped back home on the first available transport! I will decide what becomes of these people and your people will abide by my decision! Do I make myself clear!?!”
The Ambassador glowered, powerless to move a muscle in the stasis field. At full power the stasis field would stop time and gravity in the Ambassador’s vicinity, leaving him in a quantum superposition of being neither alive nor dead - and effectively trapped. As it was he could still speak, but that was all. “Now… Is there anything else you must add for our consideration, Councillor?” the Governor asked.
“Yes sir.” The Counsellor continued. “Summing up: what we have here seems to be a savant race. Culturally, spiritually, and intellectually retarded, and yet somehow advancing themselves beyond their means in foundational physics, higher dimensional reality, and, apparently… seriously advanced humour. Our records show they have had no extraterrestrial visitors, that all the races are lawfully observing the quarantine. And indeed - why would they violate it? These simians offer nothing of interest to the higher order space faring species. Yet somehow - experts believe they acquired knowledge of not only the balloon heads, but the bum heads, and the Craniacs.” The Councellor pulled up another illustration on the holo.
The Governor scowled. “Looks like they’ve been talking to them too, the foul mouthed bastards.” He paused, all four of his minds thinking. “This transmission… you think they fabricated it themselves? But how would they know what all these races looked like? If it is a fabrication… then this is also a display of seriously advanced humour.”
“Correct, sir. Only two races in this galaxy have the capacity to perceive humour; yours, and mine. And now, possibly…these guys.” the Councillor concluded.
“Councillor… could you be reaching, maybe a bit? I have to admit - portraying the balloon heads and the Craniacs as foolish clowns is a stroke of comedic genius. But could it be situational, or coincidental? Could it be they are mimicking humour rather than actually generating it themselves? I find it hard to believe that primates could do humour, to be honest.”
The Ambassador, seething and straining in the stasis field, finally reached his breaking point. “If I could reach my weapon… I’d kill you both! How DARE you entertain these savages as some kind of racial equals, you moronic fools! As soon as I’m free, I swear on my ancestor’s honour that you’ll both be killed! As painfully as possible!! “
The Governor flipped a switch on his desk, and the Ambassador was engulfed in a full standing wave of superposed reality. For the Ambassador, time would stop until the stasis field was deliberately collapsed by the authorities. For now he was temporally frozen in silence, in time and space. And this was now another grave political incident to be dealt with. The Governor and the Counsellor regarded each other silently. A third pre-sentient race with the ability to perceive advanced humour… this was unheard of, especially from a pre-spacefaring primitive people. He unwrapped his cigar absently as he mulled over everything. The Governor didn’t like talking and smoking during meetings and presentations. With this one just about over, it was time to indulge himself… and think. Out of habit, he dragged the fresh cigar across his olfactories and savoured the aroma.
“Councillor. I’m going to need more proof of these people and their sense of humour and capabilities. Our Ambassador may be right… but I would seriously hate to cull a race like this… Can you find better proof of their merit? I want an indisputable case for sparing them if at all possible. But we must also be cognizant of the peril posed by feral species.” He fumbled for his lighter.
“Let me give you a light, sir,” The Governor gratefully puffed his cigar alight. Snapping the lighter closed, the Councillor promised more information within a couple of cycles and quickly departed. When he was gone, the Governor dragged deeply on the cigar, savouring the smoke and the silence. I need a vacation, he thought.
Suddenly, the cigar exploded in his face. The blast knocked his office decorations and nick-knacks off their shelves, papers flew and caught fire, and alarms started blaring. Then the fire sprinklers activated. In a daze, the Governor spat out the soggy remains of his cigar. Three of his brains recovered, but the fourth was comatose.
Equilibrium returned slowly. The blast had set the Ambassador slowly tumbling about his horizontal axis in the weightless, timeless stasis field. Thankfully the neurons in the Governor’s fourth brain began to fire and function again.
“Fuck,” he gasped.
“The old exploding cigar gag,” he spat, “The oldest prank in the book!” Silently he cursed the Councellor and swore revenge. Across the office… the frozen, tumbling Ambassador bumped into a table and sent a priceless ancient decorative vase crashing to the floor. The Governor sighed in resignation.
“What becomes of us, Ambassador, when there are three races of clowns loose in the Galaxy?” He asked the oblivious diplomat. For his part, the slowly tumbling weightless Ambassador silently glared from his stasis, his face frozen in an expression of rage and hate.
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