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A delightful little nugget that came to me via the recent nooz coverage of that big cyclone that just hit Australia: 

 The current Premier of Queensland is a woman named Anna Bligh

As it turns out, she is, indeed, a direct descendant of William “Breadfruit” Bligh of the Bounty mutiny fame.  He was Governor of New South Wales at one point (where his officers mutinied against him again).  In fact, I fancy that I can almost kind-of sort-of see a family likeness in these pictures.

This is just the sort of completely useless but nonetheless fascinating knowledge that brightens Robbo’s day.

UPDATE: Did I say useless? That isn’t quite right, really.  Useless in the sense that I’m never likely to employ this information in and of itself for any particular gain, certainly.  (Unless I go on Jeopardy! and get the category “Famous Australian Political Ancestors,” of course.)  But not so useless in that this is the kind of thing that actually clears my mind and helps me get on with what needs to be done.   (I think it has something to do with my tendency to get bored very, very easily.)  I have a bulletin board covered with cartoons and the like in front of me that used to serve this function.   The only trouble is that unless I keep switching things out, it gets a bit stale.  The joy of the Intertoobs is that the flow is constantly swirling and changing.

Idly flipping through the tee-vee channels last evening for wont of energy to do anything more productive, I was accosted by three different commercials from three different jewelers in the space of about five minutes, thus being violently reminded that the great shake-down known as Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us.

Regular friends of the decanter will remember that ol’ Robbo generally does not go in for conspiracy theories, but that in this case he makes an exception:  Somewhere out there exists a Trilateral Commission made up of representatives from Zales, FTD and Hallmark, ceaselessly conniving to find new ways to employ bogus sentimentality to manipulate the publick into handing over large wodges of dosh.

I believe they’re even worse than the Christmas Cabal.

Feh!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have something that I feel I need to confess to you.

Regular readers of TPSAYE are well aware of Robbo’s attitude toward modern mores and the hedonistic, “anything goes” attitude that so pervades what we call our “culture”.   Such friends of the decanter also know that the bulk of Robbo’s energy has been focused on shielding his young daughters from the nihilistic trends so fervently embraced by said “culture”, and how he has hoped to give them the weapons to resist its gruesome embrace themselves.

And indeed, I may admit that from time to time I have even patted myself on the back in the belief that I was stemming the tide of barbarisms:  No “rap” musick is ever heard at the port-swiller residence, for example.  No R-rated movie is ever viewed.  No inappropriate clothing ever adorns the gels’ bodies.  The prohibition against boys going upstairs is respected and rigidly enforced by all the gels.

And yet……I find that I have failed.

How so?  This evening, as we were going over homework, I noticed that the eldest gel pronounces “often” with a “t”.

Oh, where did I go wrong? Why, God? Whyyyyyyyyyy?????????

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