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Random weirdness for the week of Aug. 30

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Since we’re all about “Svalbard on screen” this week (stupid editor and his insatiable ego…grumble, grumble), the trolls writing this under duress while locked in a dungeon are highlighting the new reality series about this place that’s really revealing.

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Viky Viktoria stars in “Stranded in Svalbard” (our title), which follows her adventures and misadventures after her husband departs for their home in Switzerland and she gets left behind (you’ll have to watch to find out why). So she gets around the archipelago, so to speak, using a combination of beauty and brains. In one provocative scene (WARNING: SPOILER AHEAD) we see how a tight white t-shirt and big boobs leads to a wild and wet time with a stranger who knows how to make waves. Such plotlines might make one think the show’s a huge bust, but there’s no denying Viki offers plenty of titillating moments…

radicalfirearms
No punchline necessary: Photo courtesy of AmmoLand.com

Since that “other” new reality show gets a bit gaga about guns, a group called Radical Firearms that’s based in Texas (of course) is looking for folks to review rifles best-suited for their effort to give cops as many guns with as much firepower as possible. Pick any off-the-shelf or custom weapon you like. They’ll even provide the ammunition. They also provided a sample review for those a bit short on mental firepower: “Review of RF-10LH to test reliability, and accuracy under reasonable operating conditions.” Should it become necessary, this could then be used to contradict spurious claims the rifle was guaranteed to be a “…select fire RF Tier 1 suitable for use hunting submerged polar bears in the Svalbard Archipelago.” Of course, if that’s how you’re using the weapon the last thing you probably want to encounter is one or more really well-armed cops. But since Svalbard obviously is full of folks familiar with weapons for the such purposes, feel free to take your best shot.

waugh
Cheap shot: Think of this guy as an ammosexual of the word processor.

And since we’re occasionally a bit less than overwhelmingly positive in our assessment of The Show Co-Starring The Crime Correspondent From L.A. from the fine folks in the U.K., it seems only fair to let one of their scribes offer a cantankerous critique of us (and by “us” we mean everyone living here gets to share the joy of being insulted). Agenda Magasin, in an Norwegian article with a headline that translates to “England’s Sourest Man,” digs up a quote from author Evelyn St. John Waugh – a man who Norwegians “do not fully appreciate” – who after a 1934 trip to Bergen, Tromsø and Svalbard concluded: “I do not like Norwegians at all. The sun never sets, bars never open and the whole country smells of herring.” Then again, nobody was exempt from his sharp pen since, according to our always accurate fellow dungeon trolls at Wikipedia, his “detachment was such that he fictionalized his own mental breakdown, which occurred in the early 1950s.…”

crazyscientists
Rimshot: Armageddon certainly seems like one of those awkward moments when some dead audience jokes might come in handy. Screenshot from video by Stavanger Aftenblad.

Finally, mad scientists are again planning for the end of the world as we know it with their latest scheme involving the Doomsday Vault. The beakers are busting their brains to figure out which “seeds” of humor should be deposited alongside the vegetable matter, zombies and space aliens currently residing there. Fortunately, they probably won’t get away with it since they chose a lousy secret hideout: Rogaland Theatre. Which means the scheme known as “Nerds” is being observed by random members of the public who wander in, some of whom are revealing details and even some confusing video snippets of the diabolical plot. Then again, maybe the scientists aren’t that stupid after all: among the disclosures is those who dare spy on the meetings are being used as lab rats for testing the seedy conspiracy.

 

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
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