STONE COLD HAVEN

The other night I was watching an episode of NCIS on TV, which was uncharacteristically eerie and was full of scenes from a funeral home, corpses cut up into meat puzzles, and teeth removed from someone alive to be superglued into a burnt out corpse to give the impression that someone was dead – and could then be falsely identified as dead through the dental records matched to the corpse.

I like NCIS because Mark Harmon who plays Leroy Jethro Gibbs is one of my favourite actors. I like his ice cold demeanour and very dry sense of humour and the ruthless way he manages his navy cops. In this particular episode, they were trying to stop a fucked up family of morticians from draining the blood out of the NCIS medical examiner before mutilating his body in a spiteful and vengeful attack.

For one brief moment, I entertained the thought of putting my bank manager through that experience. I rationalized my thoughts by accepting that some people are only alive because it’s illegal to kill – but my thoughts were possibly more sinister. I didn’t want her to die or anything, just figured that maybe changing her blood would give her a warmer personality and reasoning capacity. So far in my interactions with her, her personality ranked somewhere between that of an asparagus and a fence post, but I was determined not to let her break me down.

I removed the thought of enacting the gory scene from NCIS least because I probably wouldn’t give her a blood transfusion, but pump her body with formalin instead. I’m reliably told that a small matter of law suggests that to be on the right side of the criminal justice system, someone needs to be certified as dead first (preferably by a coroner) before an infusion of formalin into their bloodless body. Injecting formalin into someone still alive constitutes an act of unlawful killing, though the argument as to whether this is murder or manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility due to a mental disease or defect is a matter for litigation.

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Every so often, life reminds you how cynical and ruthless it can be. It’s the old adage – “In life, you either get fucked or your doing the fucking”. Stone cold advice doesn’t come as succinct as that. But before I indulge, I think it’s worth clarifying that (as nearly suggested by a couple of Stone Cold readers) my hiatus up in here was clearly not a result of me committing suicide after Man United bitch slapped the hell out of my beloved Arsenal that fateful Tuesday evening in early May at Ashburton Grove.

Alfonse Omosh clearly took this losing to Manure thing to the next level and as much as I advocate the passionate and fanatical support of my beloved Arsenal, committing suicide because of losing a football match tests the boundaries of stupidity of the highest order and ranks right up there with the best candidates for the world famous Darwin Awards – which recognize those who provide a great service to humanity and the survival of our species by eliminating themselves from the human gene pool through their sheer stupidity…but I digress!

I’ve been spending a lot of time recently getting intimately reacquainted with the bunch of punks claiming to provide an essential banking service to my business. You see, my bank has this amazing habit of switching business bank managers more frequently than the number of times most middle aged men get blowjobs in any given calendar year.

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