zaterdag, februari 28, 2009

According to a recent study, Obese teenagers carry same risk as smoking 10 cigarettes a day.

Now this is the kind of reductionist hysteria that simple warms the heart.

So "clinically obese" teen are just as prone to social darwinism premature death as 10 fag-a-day habit teens. Naturally one wonders what it takes to be considered clinically obese...

Overweight is defined as having a body mass index – a measure of body fat based on height and weight – of between 25 and 30, whereas being obese is defined as having a BMI of more than 30. Being overweight at 18 increased the risk of an early death by just more than a third, while being obese more than doubled the risk. The risk of premature death also increased with the number of cigarettes smoked, with heavy smokers at more than double the risk of dying relatively early in life compared to non-smokers.

On the other hand, whilst teens smoking 10 fags a day are likely to be considered hipsters by the underachieving antisocial, slacker element bound to populate most teenage hangouts, somehow it's far less likely some fatty is going to end up considered cool rather than the butt of every one else's jokes so, well, you do the maths:


With another pair fallen, the English maintained their worldwide lead in drunk fucks who get killed in drink-related accidents whilst on holiday.

For a few colourful examples, check here.

While normal visitors are busy doing boring things like scuba diving and “eating breakfast”, the British are showing us what the fun holiday activities really are: vomiting in the street, stumbling from balconies, getting horribly maimed, and (most fun of all) dying of alcohol poisoning.


White Stripes

There's No Home For You Here

There's no home for you here girl, go away
There's no home for you here

I'd like to think that all of this constant interaction
Is just the kind of make you drive yourself away
Each simple gesture done by me is counteracted
And leaves me standing here with nothing else to say

Completely baffled by a backward indication
That an inspired word will come across your tongue
Hands moving upward to propel the situation
Have simply halted
And now the conversation's done

There's no home for you here girl, go away
There's no home for you here

I'm only waiting for the proper time to tell you
That it's impossible to get along with you
It's hard to look you in the face when we are talking
So it helps to have a mirror in the room

I've not been really looking forward to the performance
But there's my cue and there's a question on your face
Fortunately I have come across an answer
Which is go away
And do not leave a trace

There's no home for you here girl, go away
There's no home for you here

Waking up for breakfast
Burning matches
Talking quickly
Breaking baubles
Throwing garbage
Drinking soda
Looking happy
Taking pictures
So completely stupid
Just go away

There's no home for you here girl, go away
There's no home for you here



One day this month, 30 years ago, John Simon Ritchie, otherwise known as Sid Vicious, woke up dead. He had spent the previous evening shooting heroin in celebration of his release from Riker's Island after an assault charge. Sometime during the night, his heart stopped. He was 21 years old.

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