Free Association thread 6

My mother used to kick my father on the shin when he started to repeat one of his many-times-told stories we had all heard often before. At family Christmases he had some bruising.

You might have at least bought him shin pads for Christmas, Ogg. :D
 
This thread is never going to be right until Tio comes back and explains the pyromaniac caterpillar story. :)


Tried last night, but I was timed out and lost the text. Here goes again, but it's not that exciting . . .

A pleasant Sunday morning in the late Summer, and after 6 am Mass, the family gathered at my grandmother's house for breakfast. One of her middle sons fancied himself a great cook, and volunteered, as usual, to prepare the meal. He was also rather vain in other areas as well, I should note, and was not pleased with his pattern baldness. So displeased, in fact, that he took to using the 'comb-over' to hide it. Unsuccessfully, I would add, but none of us, save for grandma, commented on it. She would tease him every time she saw him. He also sprayed his comb-over to prevent breezes from baring his pate to the world.

Well, this morning he went right to the stove with a big cast-iron skillet to cook his "special" scrambled eggs, and didn't notice the very fuzzy caterpillar in the burner pan. Within seconds of his turning on the gas, a flaming caterpillar came out, frantically rushing, as only caterpillars can rush, across the stove top and away from the burner.

My uncle apparently decided the best course of action was to get the fiery larva out of the house. He flung the kitchen window open, and the breeze wafted a sheer curtain panel towards the stove just in time to meet the caterpillar attempting to escape its own flaming fuzz. The beast grasped the curtain, and ignited the very flammable material.

My uncle acted quickly, tearing the curtain down to toss it out the window. It fell across his face, though, and his comb-over burst into flame, aided, no doubt, by his hair spray. My father reacted well, tossing a dish towel over his younger brother's head to douse the flame and then taking hold of the curtain and tossing it in the sink, where my mother wisely turned on the water to properly extinguish the dramatically flaming drapery.

My uncle stood there with the strange look on his face made even stranger by his singed eyebrows and hair. Most of the family was concerned that he was all right, but his mother just chuckled. And chuckled. And ever after chuckled when someone would mention the caterpillar incident.
 
So those who reject the past are actually xenophobic? That’s as good an explanation as any for much of contemporary life.

Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are condemned to repeat the course next semester.
 
So if you want to know what happened in the past, the last person to ask is a history prof?

One can never know what happened in the past one can only know what one tells one happened in the past. All is conjecture all is subjective. Truth is not truth. Lies are not lies. Abandon all hope, ye who enter...
 
One can never know what happened in the past one can only know what one tells one happened in the past. All is conjecture all is subjective. Truth is not truth. Lies are not lies. Abandon all hope, ye who enter...

So well put.

My teacher buddies and I have this argument all the time. My older colleague feels it's possible to know what happened in the past, but I disagree. I think events happened in one way only, but that as soon as anyone (let alone more than one person) tells the tale, uncertainty arises.

We'll never, ever know for sure. And that goes double for the present (tomorrow's history), so breathlessly reported by so many sources who, even if they're less biased than most, still aren't there to see or hear everything.

I don't think any of that is sad. I think it's magical. But then, I'm comfortable with ambiguity.
 
How far back in the past are talking, here?
Even the ancient Egyptians wrote things down . . . .
 
How far back in the past are talking, here?
Even the ancient Egyptians wrote things down . . . .

Writing is the least objective of records - it records what the writer wants to record. Garbage is much more objective; ask any archaeologist. (But then again, you'd just get an archaeologist's view).
 
Writing can become magic - good and bad, especially religious writing.
 
Writing is the least objective of records - it records what the writer wants to record. Garbage is much more objective; ask any archaeologist. (But then again, you'd just get an archaeologist's view).

This.

It's not about what got written down. It's about the perceptions of the person holding the pen, in any era.
 
That was just so wrong in so many ways, but ending it with "toast" is the ultimate sin. :eek:

.

Beware of Google Translate! And definitely be careful in awarding the DoD "War Cloud" contract. (or not . . . remember, the Pentagon has named the project "Jedi")!
 
There was a very funny piece on the Radio a year or three ago which featured the translation of a surgical procedure from 'foreign' into English.
It made me realise that the translator's job is not easy.
 
Beware of Google Translate! And definitely be careful in awarding the DoD "War Cloud" contract. (or not . . . remember, the Pentagon has named the project "Jedi")!

I needed bits and pieces of Chinese for the story I’m currently writing. As a placeholder, I used the Google translated versions until I could check with M’lady. She thought they were absolutely hilarious. “Slut” became “Lazy Woman”, for instance.

I wonder how many of the truly bad Chinese character tattoos on non Chinese speakers started with Google translated English.
 
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