Special posts for special people.

By: Peemil.

Today we have a very special edition of Where are my socks?. Instead of the usual Saturday comic we will unveil our latest video, "Rory: The Untold Story."

I understand that I said that this would be done on Sunday, but I was informed yesterday that we will be going down to Busan this weekend and hence, I wouldn't be able to post it till late Sunday evening.

As with all things on this blog, what follows is a complete work of fiction. In fact, it is complete and utter codswallop.

Anyone who reads this blog regularly would understand that a lot of what is published here borders, or exists somewhere in the absurd. The following video is swimming in that absurdity.

So, for all my regular readers I say "enjoy," and for those of you who have just stumbled over this blog, prepare yourself for the complete and utter bullshit that is "Rory: The Untold Story."

A message to my readers.

By: Peemil.

Dear Readers,

Writing for this blog is something I enjoy immeasureably, and your readership of my words gives me a joy that I can never possibly reciprocate.

As a courtesy to you though, I like to inform you all when normal transmission is going to be interrupted.

Hence, please do not expect any updates for a couple of days. At least until this Tuesday. I have a pile of housekeeping on this blog to do, and need a couple of days to get through it all.

As always, I thank you for your continued readership and wish you all a happy and safe weekend.

Yours Sincerely,

Peemil.

Attacks in London.

Our thoughts here at Where are my socks? go out to everyone in London during this time. To my friends there, I hope that you are all well and safe.


Above: That's right Tony. The towel heads are going to get it.

John.

By: Peemil.

Dear Korea,

I don't know about you, but when I see a shop with an open sign, an open door and a shopkeeper inside, I generally believe that the business is indeed open.

However, over my time in Korea, I have found that these subtle clues aren't exactly true. In fact, they are but deceits designed to give whoever is running the show, a smug satisfaction that they have opened when they really haven't.

That is great for them- But when I walk into an open shop, I often hope that I will be leaving with something.

I'll give you two examples to illustrate my point. I recently went to KFC just after it had opened. It was early and I was the first customer. I know it's crazy. Wanting to eat chicken around 11am in the morning. Bizarre! But I'd been up for seven hours and I was feeling a little peckish.

Funnily enough, the girl behind the counter was absolutely terrified at the idea of having to serve customers. The doors were wide open and there was a big sign out the front that said exactly that. Open. But when I tried to order, the girl informed me that I had to wait for her to get the till, put it in, turn on the cookers, get the bread and everything else. So, a trip to this particularly KFC took around half an hour because someone had opened the shop and not prepared anything. Instead, from what I saw, she was spending more time staring at the wall like a vacuous lemming on horse tranquilizer, than she was preparing the business for its intended purpose.

If you haven't got my point yet- It is this. When you open a business, it is a good idea to have everything ready. Not to wait till the first customer comes in, and then realise that you might need to get the till ready so that you can give change.

This rule applies especially to Korean bakeries. Now- I don't go to your average Korean bakery. Not a chance. I can imagine that the green stuff from underneath my big toenail tastes better than half the crap you people bake and call bread.

Just as a little aside here. Bread does not taste good with half a pound of sugar in every loaf. Nor does it taste good with canned whipped cream smeared all over it. Nor is it a good idea to pump it with so many preservatives that it will still be in perfect condition when it is uncovered by archaeologists in one thousand years time.

But I digress. Bakers often go to work early, get all or most of the bread baked before the first customer comes in the door, and then knock off around midday. That's the life of a baker. He does it so that there is bread when the first customers come, and so he can get to the pub for lunch at midday.

It is not a good idea to open the bakery and then be shocked and suprised when I walk through the door and ask for a loaf of bread.

I must be confused though. Bakeries aren't about bread. They're about disgusting crab sticks wrapped in something resembling bread, which are as old as my dead grandmother and smell a lot like her too. Funnily enough, these always seem to be available in ample quantities.

This goes especially to the one place, in all of Ulsan that bakes normal, everyday, no sugar, not an off colour yellow, with no cream, tastes alright, could be better but I haven't got much of a choice around here- Bread. Homeplus bakery in Ulsan. If I turn up next week after a thirty minute trip into the city, so I can have toasted soldiers with my soft boiled egg in the morning, and you haven't got any bread- I am going to bound over the counter and batter you with a dried up baguette.
Thank you for your time.

Yours Sincerely,

Peemil.

Cheers for bringing this to my attention Malcolm.

Above: It's Winnie from "The Wonder Years." Streuth... You got hot girl.

Here's some other stuff from the blogs I read regularly, in a section we like to call- "Friday catch up."

The Marmot files a report on teen prostitution in the South Pacific, involving dirty old Korean fishermen.

The always well written Eclexys gives us some movie reviews. Shame most of them won't play here in Ulsan.

Rory gives us James' book of the week.

The on-going trials and tribulations between Asiatown77 and his boss continue.

I know the Jeju Princes' site is image heavy, but check out the kid in the top photo.

Japundit gives us links to the unofficial site of the Pyongyang Metro.

Rex shows how Australian mobile phone users can make out like bandits.

Facade: Part Two.

By: Peemil.

I downloaded Facade yesterday and have been playing it on and off and over the course of an evening and a morning. For those of you who don't know, Facade is a free to download game that has been five years in the making. The premise is simple. You're invited to a dinner party where your hosts- A married couple, are having a dust-up. You communicate directly with the characters through text input, which the characters respond to immediately. What you say and do, affects the outcome of the story.

We put the game through some tests of our own here at Where are my socks? and it did well. However, they don't really respond well to the following statements.


Above: She won't though. Is there something wrong with me?


Above: He's not keen on the idea.


Above: C'mon- It's not a bad idea. Don't look at me like that.


Above: It's true though.


Above: Don't speak Australian hey?


Above: This fella has got a real hang up with this eight ball he keeps carrying around.


Above: I wondered what it would be like if I used my students vocabulary. We never got past this question.


Above: That's right. Don't think about it.


Above: Where is the "punch" function on this thing?

In all seriousness though, this game is something else. This is a fine first attempt at making a world where you actually interact with the characters and affect their moods, what they say and ultimately the story.

I was ranting last night about how this was going to be the first in a long line of games using this method of interaction, and the engine that runs it is only going to get better and more believable over time.

The characters and the story are engaging. It's positively scary when the two characters start abusing each other, as only married couples can. It's a shame they don't start throwing dishes.

However, I must mention that the woman really gets on my nerves. I really wish that they had included a "bitch slap" button.

I haven't got through to the end yet. Like I said, I am not counsellor material. Everytime I open my mouth I get thrown out of the house. My girlfriend completed it on her first try. Maybe she's more communicative than I. When she finished it though, the woman ended up leaving.

Download it and give it a go. You won't be disappointed.

Dinner with the In-laws.

By: Trayler Trash Tim.

The suns been settin real pretty around here peemil's. it's a shame you are all the ways over there in korea. me and rick have been havin some real quality time together since the bucks night down on the gold coast.

he usually comes round after work and we sit down and have a few quiet beers while the women go off and do stuff. sometimes we just sit there and watch the sun go down until it gets to cold and we's got to start the fire up.

yep, peemil. this is the life for me. a couple of traylers, a good family, a fire and a good son-in-law to be.

a few nights ago he was sayin that he wanted us to meet his parents. "fair enough," i said. "bring em' on round to the trayler. we'll haves a big cook out. get the family round again. god knows they's always up for a party."

he says though that he'd like us to come rounds their place for dinner. repay the hospitality that we had shown him.

we decided that we'd do the dinner on saturday night. 7 o'clock he reckons. no worries. so last saturday we load up the mrs, me daughter and meself in the trucks and heads around to the address he'd given us.

when i first looked at the address he gives me i knew it. it was in the rich part of town. i should know. i'm the garbage man. i know this city like the backs of me hand. rounds that part of town, they's forever throwin away shit that just needs a bit of fixing. like the tv i got. all it needed was a new power cable and it's like brand new. sometimes it don't work real good though, but alls you have to do is give it a good bashin and the picture comes right back on. more money than sense some of these people hey?

but, i'm not going to be raggin on no one cause they got more money. some people are lucky like that. just to have stuff to throw away. i don't need it though. i got the sun setting and a beer. i might not have a big house, but my trayler is more a home than i've ever known.

i tell you though, nothing could prepare me for what we saw when we got there. i don't usually pay a lot of attention to the places we go to on our garbage run. it's just off the truck, grab the garbage, chuck it in and move on. no time for architecture appreciation.

it is quite a place. i reckons it's closer to a mansion. they even had those big gates that swing open after you talk into the little box. the grounds were perfectly manicured. looked to me that their gardener, whoever he is, works pretty hard.

we stopped the car in front of the steps and got out. the air smelt of cut lawn and mist from the fountains placed around the yard. hell, i was thinking that i ought to stay in the car. places like this usually have wildlife hanging about. you know these people are pretty keen on getting lions and tigers to roam about their grounds.

we went up the stairs and knocked on the door. it opened and there was a butler. "can i helps you?" he says.

"yeah mate. how you doing?" I says. "we heres to see ricks parents. we're the traylers."
"oh yes," he says. "we have been expecting you."

the doors opened and i have never seen a place so decked out. marble floors, expensive vases and a huge staircase. i tell you peemil, i could goes on forever about this place. fuckin huge it was. it must of had 20 bedrooms. you could get most of me kids in here and still have room for all the trayler clan. "excuse me sir," the butler said, "if you'd come this way."

we must of been standing there like stunned mullets hey? me mrs had the biggest eyes i ever did see. me daughter was shocked to the shithouse. "daddy, i didn't know about any of this. rick never talks about his family."

we followed the butler into what we were told was the parlour. we sat down and were told that our hosts would be with us in a few minutes. no-one said anything until me mrs opened her mouth- something she does so very rarely, so it's a good idea to be listening because it's probably important. "fuck me. they're loaded," she says.

"not now honey," i says. "i'll do you when i gets home. but you ares right. they sure got a fair bit of money."

we didn't have to waits long for thems to turn up. in they come dressed in their fine clothes and all. i stood up and put out my hand, "g'day. trayler trash tims," i say. "this is me mrs and this is me lovely daughter jane who'll be marryin your wonderful son," i says.

"i'm jeffrey, ricks father and this is my wife, hillary," his father says as he shook my hand. this wasn't lookin good. rick was standing to the side of his parents, all dressed up nice and proper- but you could sees in his eyes that he wasn't happy.

"would you like a drink?" he asks.
"too right. always can go a drink. beer if you got one." i says.

jeffrey called out to the butler and got some drinks for all of us. we made a little bit of small talk till they arrived. we really didn't haves a lot in common. they's said they were "olds money." "old money- new money," all the sames at the end of the day. it all folds don't it?

anyhow, his father gets straight to the point. "mr trayler," he says.
"just call me tim, we's going to be related soon anyhows," i says.
"yes. rather," he says clearin his throat. "it's that which we've brought you here to talk about."
"yeah," i says. "if you worried about the wedding plans and all that, we got it all sorted out. we're going to have the reception on me block of land, have a pig and all that, but we'll have the wedding in the church and all. just to make it proper like."
"it's not that mr trayler."
"tim."
"mr tim. it's just that my son is heir to a small fortune. all this will be his one day. we have allowed him to go off and do what he likes, for the time. but this workin at the butcher and marrying outside of what is acceptable must end now."
"excuse me?" i says.
"it's just that, my son must be the best if he's going to take this all on one days," he says.
"i don't get what you are getting at?" i asked.
"quite simply, mr tim, we have decided to forbid the wedding. our son is not to see your daughter anymore," he reckons.
"you can't do that," i says. "they're in love. love always finds a way."
"yes we can mr tim. surely you can understand. it's just that your family isn't up to stock."

now he was dissin my family. this was to end here.

"excuse me jeffrey," i begins. "we might not have a lot, and might not come from the 'best stock' but we are good people. your son is a top notch lad. he works hard, he loves my daughter and as far as i'm concerned he's going to be part of me family."

rick, who had been staring at the floor, raised his head.

"us traylers are a breed ourselves too. we were a little worried about your son at the beginning too, coming from tasmania and all. but we all come around to the fact that we have to accept whatever life throws our way," i says.
"mr tim. i don't think you understand. he's not marryin your daughter," he says.
"i'm sorry mr jeffrey, but neither you or me can make that choice."

i's looked at rick. "what's it to be? your most welcome at my place anytime son. you will be a fine son-in-law and i trust and believe in you- whatever you choose."

silence. deafening silence.

rick opened his mouth and spoke. "i want to watch the sunset with you dad," he says looking at me.

"well come on. we ain't welcome here's anyhow. let's go."

me mrs, me daughter, rick and me stood up.

"now sir," i says. "we have to be going now."

and with that we walked out of the house, while they sat there eyes all big.

as the kids got in the back of the truck, rick's father stood on the stairs cursin out his son. disownin him and all. i looked at rick and said. "don't worry about it. you's got all you need here."

"you know dad. you're right. let's go home, get the bbq on and have a few beers."

and that peemil, is exactly what we did.

Having a yarn.

By: Peemil.

We haven't got a television around here. Well we do have a television. But the people who run the apartment complex decided that paying two dollars more a month for cable TV was too expensive, so it was better to cut everyone's cable off than to pay the extra. Hence, our television has only the Korean free to air stations, which make me feel like I want to push a rusty nail through my eye.

Needless to say, if anyone is interested where I get the time to make stupid movies and write in this blog, you now have the answer. A lack of continously repeating cable movies often drives someone to blogging. That- And three hours sleep a night gives someone a lot of free time.

The reason that I believe the cable was turned off is mired in sleep deprived paranoia. One night while I was staring intently at the roof wondering exactly why I didn't have the power of the force so I could make it translucent and be able to see the stars-- Or at least, through to what was going on in the apartment above me-- I came across this idea.

For months after the cable was turned off, a chap who offered "Sky Life" satellite dishes set up shop down at the bottom of the apartment complex. It was like magic. The television goes off and then voila. There is fuckface selling cable TV at ten times the rate that we would of paid, if the "Apartment council" had continued to allow us access to the cable we had at the astounding price of three dollars a month.

I reckoned that they were probably in cahoots with each other. Probably family I reckoned. That's how it works here. It was probably his son who made an absolute killing around here, if the amount of satellite dishes I see everyday is any indication.

For a while, I thought about digging up a baseball bat and fronting this "Apartment board" in my own charming way and demanding that the television be put back on. Then I realised that I don't own a baseball bat, and when the television was on, all I did was watch "Friends," which is something I did only when I got to Korea because there was nothing on the television in the first place. So my problems were groundless.

What I did learn from this is, I need to go and buy a baseball bat and secondly, if you try to replace said bat with a tennis racket in your thoughts, your fantasies drift towards Wimbeldon highlights, short skirts and girls' knickers.

Mind you, when I do get around a television it's like meeting a long lost friend who is still as intolerably boring as ever. The last time I saw television we were staying in a hotel in Busan. I walked straight through the door, grabbed the remote control and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hello old friend. What have you got for me?" I asked.

I turned the television on.

"Hmm... That's not interesting. Mmm... What's this... Oh no... Not that... What the fuck is that?... Alright... Boxing... Um... God this match is ten years old... Urghhh... "Friends"... Fuck I swear to God if I ever meet that Jennifer Aniston, I'm going to put her head through a meat mincer."

"Peemil- Calm down," my girlfriend says. "You're always so angry. Just chill out," she says.

It's true. I'm a rageaholic. I like it. I'm the guy who goes nutters on the freeway one day with a semi-automatic rifle because someone cut me off. I make no qualms about this. It's part of who I am. Over time it has tempered, but the song remains the same.

"Why are you so angry all the time Peemil?" is what my girlfriend usually asks as I release the waiter from my grasp.

"Because nothing ever goes bloody right. If there is a way for things to fuck up it will just happen."

Take this for example. A few weeks ago I came through the door with a bill in my hand. "What's that?" my girlfriend asks.

"Foreigner tax. My boss gave me the bill today."
"Huh?"
"You know that stupid bill I get every six months?"
"Oh- That one. The one that no one else in the whole of Korea has even heard of, but the local city council has decided to use you as its original poster boy?"
"Yep- That one," I say. "Can you do me a favour and take it down to your boss who speaks English and get it checked out. You know my boss calls the phone bill "tax," because she hasn't got any bloody idea how to speak English."

The next day my girlfriend takes the bill down to her boss. "What did your boss say?" I ask over dinner.

"She says it's foreigner tax. She says she has never seen anything like it before. In fact, I asked my friends and they have no idea what it is all about either."

You see what I mean? You add a thousand of these little episodes up everyday, and like a tap dripping into a bucket, my anger is constantly going to overflow and run down the sides. Truly, there is only so much a man can take before he turns the waiter's face into a bloody pulp.

I am the guy who everyone says, "That is pretty fucked up. I've never seen, heard or read about that anywhere at anytime in the history of mankind" to.

What shits me more, is people who tell me to chill out. Which is what my girlfriend and I were talking about on the bed last night, because we don't have a television to distract us.

I was telling her about the other teacher at work who is a Buddhist and talks about his temple and his "Master" like a reverent Jedi knight everytime we talk. He says to me a few days ago, after a particularly distressing class of turds who decided it would be a fantastic idea to talk constantly and annoy the shit out of the teacher regardless of his pleas for silence.

"Yes," he says. "My Master says, you need to direct your karma."
"What bloody karma?" I ask.
"You need to do good work."
"I do good work. I work hard, I take care of my girlfriend and I don't run over too many cats."
"No- Work without pay."
"Like fuck I'm coming in here without getting paid."
"No- Not here. For charity and the like. Or come and work at the temple," he says. "My master says it is the best way."

At this point in the conversation I just disengaged from the subject. But this is what I was thinking, and what I relayed in my conversation with my girlfriend last night.

"See what I don't fucking get is this. All these "Masters of Religion" have the time to sit around and talk philosophical diarrhea because stupid saps like the guy I work with devote their weekends to replanting their gardens, cutting their firewood and serving their fucking meals."
"Maybe it's rejuvenating," she counters.
"Yeah- For the Master," I reckon.
"No- For him. Maybe he gets some spiritual joy out of it," she says.
"Spiritual fucking joy. It's a fucking scam- That's what it is. It's all a big fucking scam. Working in organised religion is the final resting place for lazy fuckers who only want to work for a few hours on Sunday, but want 'to do' something."
"That's a closed minded view," she says.
"Bullfuck it is. When was the last time the Pope got off his lazy arse to do anything? Fucking never- That's when. He just stands up there, waves wistfully and commands his flock to give ten percent of their wages and go out and help the people of the world. Then he sits down to a big roast lunch and wine prepared by someone else and on someone else's dime. After which, he goes and reads dusty volumes of crap spewed out by other wankers long ago, who were recounting the story of a guy who was so lazy, he travelled around the countryside professing that he was God's son and getting a posse together to do his work. It's no wonder the Romans stuck him up on a cross. They didn't want any competition in the lazy and indolent stakes."
"The poor don't have to give ten percent of their wage," she says.
"Huh?"
"You said that Catholics have to give ten percent of their wage. Poor Catholics don't have to," she reckons.
"Bollocks. If you heard the sermon you have to pay. In fact, it's the poor who give the most because they want to get out of the hole that they're in. A hole that they're in because their religion says that they can't have birth control, so they have twenty fucking children. Ever wonder why people in India are poor? It's because they've got thirty mouths to feed and only a few bread winners. A stable middle class starts with 2.5 children."
"Hmm.." she says, thoroughly disinterested with what I'm ranting about by now.
"It's like the Jehovah's Witnesses. They're the same. And the Mormons. Hell- They're all as bad as each other. It's all a scam. At the end of the day, God doesn't exist and the Dalai Lama and the Pope are lazy cunts."

Spiderwebs.

In the last part of Sally's saga from New Zealand, she had just gone on a mission with the Kiwi resistance to destroy a souvenir factory. All were killed except Sally who escaped back into the tunnels. Here you can read Part one, Part two, Part three, and Part four of this continuing story.-Peemil.


By: Sally.

I began walking. I had no idea which way I should be heading. The tunnels were lit intermittently by lamps, but for the most part I stumbled around in darkness.

I called out, but to no avail. I'd seen how far these tunnels stretched. I remember Tom telling me that there was about 3000 kilometres of these tunnels, reaching across New Zealand. It truly is amazing that a group of people thought as only as vermin could create something like that which I was groping through at the moment.

I knew not what time it was. It was early morning when the gun fight ended with the death of all those brave Kiwi's who had sacrificed their lives for the resistance. There was no way that I was going to make it back to the compound before first light.

I have no idea how long I walked through the tunnels. It must of been hours. After a while I sat down. I was tired, thirsty and hungry. After a while, I could hear footfalls coming towards me. They didn't sound like the disorganized running of the Kiwi resistance, but a steady thump-thump of trained soldiers. Realising that Australian soldiers must be in the tunnels, I hid in the darkness around a corner of the tunnel and waited for them to pass.

Their lights trained forward and illuminated the tunnel as they ran past. It's good being six years old sometimes, because they didn't see me hidden around a corner off the tunnel and crouched in a darkened corner.

What I did next is probably about the most terrifying part of my entire journey here. I followed them. I figured that I didn't have much of a choice. If they were down here raiding the tunnels, they also knew how to get out of them. I waited for the last of them to pass and followed a good ten metres behind them. I tried to keep a rhythm with them so as not to disturb the sound their boots made as it echoed down the tunnel.

God Peemil- How I ran. Already exhausted my legs felt like rubber. I was forever losing track of them and praying that the next corner I rounded they would be ahead of me.

As I rounded a corner I stopped dead in my tracks. Ahead of me they were climbing a ladder to the surface. I stepped aside, peered around the corner and waited for all of them to climb out of the tunnels.

That's when I heard the gunfire. A constant rat-a-tat of machine guns and the screaming of women mixed with the sounds of battle. I approached the ladder with trepidation and climbed it. I stuck my head out and saw the soldiers that I had followed lined up in front of me.

Their eyes forward and with the sound of their rifles and machine guns, I was able to climb out of the tunnel. I rolled into some nearby bushes and hid.

We were atop a hill and below us was a valley. On the other side of the valley, Kiwi resistance men fired at the soldiers, and in the valley was a small Kiwi village being pounded by artillery and mortars. Down there I could see the terrified inhabitants trying to find someway out. Yet, the soldiers all around me continued to fire down on them.

I had to leave. I crawled out of the bushes, lay low and tried to make it as far away from these soldiers as I could. I crawled through the underbrush with the sound of bullets whipping through the air and the thumping of artillery in the valley.

When I'd got far enough away, I stood up and ran. "I have to get out of here," I thought.

Blindly running through the forest, I felt a hand reach out and grab me. I was dragged into a bush by a Kiwi man. His hand covered my mouth as I struggled until I realised this. "Shh... Little Aussie girl. Shh..."

I stopped struggling and he released me. "Who are you? How do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Little Aussie girl. Everyone know about you. You come to save us."

Facade.

By: Peemil.

Just got this in my inbox. It's a free to download, interactive and experimental game. I'll just let the website speak.

"Façade is an artificial intelligence-based art/research experiment in electronic narrative – an attempt to move beyond traditional branching or hyper-linked narrative to create a fully-realized, one-act interactive drama. Integrating an interdisciplinary set of artistic practices and artificial intelligence technologies, we have completed a five year collaboration to engineer a novel architecture for supporting emotional, interactive character behavior and drama-managed plot. Within this architecture we have built a dramatically interesting, real-time 3D virtual world inhabited by computer-controlled characters, in which the player experiences a story from a first-person perspective." Source.

Façade requires Windows XP / 2000 / ME, on a computer 1.6 GHz or faster, with 256MB or more of RAM and 1.0GB of hard disk space. A Macintosh version is planned for some point in the future.

You can download the game here.

Above: Shut up woman.

Happy life- Grand future.

By: Peemil.

No one mangles the English language quite like the Koreans. For years, I've been asking why Korean companies don't get someone who actually speaks English to check their slogans? Of course though, if they did this they have to admit that even their English speaking employees have no bloody idea what they are doing and hence, nothing gets done.

The great Konglish rag, The Korean Times, which is useful as toilet paper and lining on the kitty litter tray, reports that companies are finally understanding the fact that no-one really gets what they are trying to say.


Above: The contenders.

Pictures are always good.

Above: Now that I've got your attention, if you haven't seen the video I made yesterday, click here. Even though I enjoy setting pictures to music my kids listen to at school, I have a couple of much bigger projects in the works. Be sure to check in on Sunday, when we'll be unveiling our first video.

Update: Done on Saturday.

With thanks to Mr D. for sending it to me yesterday.

When Shane Warne and Simone first got married Shane said, "I am putting a box under the bed. You must promise never to look in it."

In all their 10 years of marriage, Simone had never looked.

However, on the afternoon of their 10th anniversary, curiosity got the best of her and she lifted the lid and peeked inside. In the box were 3 empty beer cans and $81,874.25 in cash. She closed the box and put it backunder the bed. Now that she knew what was in the box, she was doubly curious as to why there even was such a box with such contents.

That evening, they were out for a special anniversary dinner. After dinner, Simone could no longer contain her curiosity and she confessed, saying, "I am so sorry. For all these years, I kept my promise and never looked into the box under our bed.

However, today the temptation was too much and I gave in. But now I need to know,
why do you keep the 3 beer cans in the box?"

Shane thought for a while and said, "I guess after all these years you deserve to know the truth. Whenever I was unfaithful to you, I put an empty beer can in the box under the bed to remind myself not to do it again."

Simone was shocked, but said, "I am very disappointed and saddened by your behaviour. However, since you are addicted to sex, I guess it does happen and I guess 3 times is not that bad considering your problem." Shane thanked her for being so understanding. They hugged and made their peace.

A little while later Simone asked Shane, "So why do you have all that money in the box?"

Shane answered, "Well, whenever the box filled up with empty cans, I took them to the recycling centre and redeemed them for cash."

Wednesday: What do you think?

The G8 Summit is being held in Edinburgh. As always, the ensuing protests are a comical mix of the umemployed, the politically divided and the generally smelly. Because of our far-reaching journalistic presence, we here at Where are my socks? were able to get out and mingle in the crowds and ask the protesters: What exactly is going on behind the doors of the G8 summit?

For a live blog of the summit you can have a look here.


Fred- Professional pothead. "Don't you know? It's here at the G8 summit that our elected representative meet with our extraterrestrial overlords and agree to how many of us will be taken away in their space vehicles to the planet Tenkaqu."


Rosa- Ex-wife. "It's nothing to do with the aliens. It's an annual orgy where the rich and powerful get together and bang some high class hooker arse."


Tom- Angry anarchist. "High class hookers? The only people who are getting screwed here are us, and the people who are banging us from behind are locked up in the summit behind a wall of coppers."


Britney- Middle class dickhead with an undergraduate attitude. "I got up this morning, got some money from my parents who hold good jobs, put on my Nike sneakers, my Che Guevra t-shirt- Handmade by a subsidiary of the Gap in Bangledesh, put my Ipod in my back pocket, grabbed my laptop and am down here to protest third world poverty."


Carol- Caffeine addict. "For fuck's sake! Just open the fucking Starbucks."


Samuel- Strange 30ish gay man. "Protest? I'm not here for the protest. I'm here to pick up one of these ever so slim, pure vegetable diet, waif boys."

Just because I can.

By: Peemil.

Something I whipped up this morning because I couldn't be bothered writing anything can be found here.

Rescued Seal.

The New York Times has reported that a Navy Seal has been rescued in Afghanistan.


Above: Whatda you looking at punk?

Unfortunately, the sources we contacted for interview stated that "Frank" was enjoying some fish and a little bit of R&R, when a drunken mob of Canadian soldiers forced their way onto the US base and clubbed "Frank" to death.

The Canuck bastards. But we have to respect their culture, even if it seems weird to us.

Stuff that should of been in Monday's edition.

You are the man.

Let's all go for a drive.

Dance whitey.

A really drunk Russian on TV

Jesus. Someone ought to call an exorcist. Part one and Part two.

Bloody Towel heads.

Tom Cruise zaps Oprah.

Wait for Henry. English Jackass.

Run Forrest Run! It's true though.

Saturated with soju.

By: Peemil.


Above: Ulsan is famous for a rickety old ferris wheel that gets serverely damaged in high winds.


Above: We went to dinner at a fancy BBQ restaurant. A little better than your average run of the mill, Mum and Pop BBQ restaurant. We were informed by our Korean friend that this meat was the shit. It was good, even though the price was less than desirable. But we did get some good side dishes.


Above: We got a windowed room above the plebians for our meal. Below us you can see the foul refuge of society scoffing away their meals in attempts to make sense of their futile existences.


Above: After dinner it was time to go chase that neon rainbow and live that honky tonk dream.


Above: Same shit- Different building. Pub, DVD room, singing room. What no PC room? I'm disappointed Korea.


Above: Dancing girls. This is advertising in Korea. We had a good shot of me next to them making out like a frat boy on speed, but my girlfriend refused to take the photo on account of me being a dickhead.


Above: We got to the soju bang and it was time to eat again. Although I didn't eat any of this stuff, we did get some sweet and sour.


Above: Soju. When will I learn not to drink this shit? Even if it is in a bamboo pourer.


Above: Must be good soju, because I'm starting to see shit. This alien came and annoyed us for a while. But his dancing was really good. Nothing like that Vulcan I saw last time on I was on the piss.


Above: After too much soju it was time to go home. In the back of the taxi this was my vision.


Above: Yes. Seven is the number.