(Pro tip from a certified Intertunnel explorer: mute the audio)
Well, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, but I’ve never seen a fiery hellstorm-vortex topped with debris and bits of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. At least she’s gone to a better place. Namely, anywhere that isn’t Kansas.
Taken out of context, this video might seem a bit disturbing to some. It’ll seem awesome to everyone else, because let’s face it, a fiery hellstorm-from-hell is a lot cooler than a plain old brush fire. Nobody died, so I’m allowed to joke about it freely without feeling any pangs of eternal remorse, and getting moved from Santa’s Nice List to his That Guy List. I’m sure a lot of precious flora and fauna was cleansed from the middle-American dirt, but I’ve noticed they don’t seem to hesitate to reproduce themselves the way art history majors do.
Its really rough being a fireman when you take the name literally. You’re not supposed to set yourself on fire, man.
This reminds me of a job I had for about five minutes before I was let go for breeding pigeons on the roof, and letting them use the bathroom for their poo parties. The poo parties weren’t my idea; I simply noticed that the pigeons pooped a lot, and liked frightening the incontinent. The bathroom was an ideal spot to keep them when they weren’t soaring above the Denny’s parking, defecating on everything that dared stray within a one-mile radius of their poo headquarters.
OK, so the boat’s on fire. The firey boat is full of fuel, promising further firey boat goodness. The skipper has abandoned ship, Gilligan is pan roasted by now, Ginger is back in her trailer on the set calling her agent demanding a real career. So far I get it.
Then Mister Fireboat shows up. He swings into action. He’s not afraid of a little gasoline-fueled explosion. He’s probably not afraid because he’s just a regular boater, so that means he’s drunk. He should be afraid, but he isn’t; it’s the hallmark of the True Borderline Sociopathic Boy.
OK, so he saves the flaming boat. He don’t need no steenkin’ hoses, or ladders, or firetrucks, or extinguishers, or anything your run of the mill fireman needs. I only have one question: How’s he going to get a cat out of a tree using a speedboat? Huh, smart guy?
[Many thanks to friend of the BSBFB Charles Schneider for sending that one along]
When I see that wonderful Cyrillic alphabet in the title, I always know what I’m going to get.
Well, not exactly what I’m going to get of course. I’m not a mind reader, and everybody in Russia is half out of their minds anyway, so mind reading might not help. But I always have a hunch that something wacky is going on just past the play button. I’m rarely disappointed.
Picture, if you will, the Russian Fire station. The phone is ringing off the hook. There is a wide assortment of supermarkets, apartment buildings, buses, trains, planes, trucks, cars, scooters, nuclear power plants, and mulecarts fully aflame all over the immediate area. There are pools of flammable hazardous waste leaking out of everything, and even the infants smoke. The Dalmation has three legs left from the last time they all got a notion to do something fun.
Sergei or Ivan or Ivor or Leonid answers the phone once in a blue moon, and yells over the frantic cries for help: Call back later; we’re busy out front.
[Thanks to tovarisch Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along]